


Thunderbirds: Whumptober 2018

by LadyRazorsharp



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Aging, Autopilot - Freeform, Bedside Vigil, Blood and Gore, Brotherly Love, Cancer, Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation, Chronic Condition, Coma, Depression, Dirty Fighting, Dog bite, Drowning, Drowning Mention, Electrocution, Espionage, Exhaustion, F/M, Fencing, Ferrari - Freeform, Gen, Grief, Hallucinogenic drugs, Hook Up, Hospital, Hypothermia, Infidelity, Insomnia, Jealousy, Kidnapping, Lamborghini, Little bit of blood, M/M, Manhandling, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Merrie Olde England, Mourning, Murder, Next Generation, Nightclub, One Night Stand, Pizza, Poisoning, Prison, Psychotropic Drugs, Rage, Restraints, Self-Sacrifice, Siblings, Space Station, Spycraft, Surfing, Thunderbird Shadow, Whump, Whumptober, Zombies, accidental drug ingestion, amazing stories, bad breakup, car auction, cardiac arrest - Freeform, chance encounter, cocktails, dad-sense, deserted road, epee, hostage, hydrofoil crash, joyriding, keeping secrets, kicking ass, lake house, last chance gas station, little bit of m/m fluff, logic what logic, losing touch with reality, m/m relationship, malicious intent, meteor strike, negotiation, slipping someone a mickey, teatime, trial by fire, video games - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-07-24 12:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 31,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16175369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRazorsharp/pseuds/LadyRazorsharp
Summary: One prompt per day that begs the question: "How bad can we whump the Tracys during the month of October? Let's find out!"





	1. Stabbed

**_AN: First installment of ‘Whumptober.’  This is during the Tracy boys’ college years, when Scott is on leave from the Air Force, Virgil is at Stanford, John is at MIT, and Gordon’s gold medal is about a year past._ **

 

**Stabbed**

_ Two of his classmates are bitter rivals, and John just happens to be in the way. _

 

The stands were filling up as Jeff led two of his sons through the crowd at the fencing meet. Scott and Virgil were right behind him, leaving a gaggle of stunned girls in their wake, and he turned to make sure they were keeping up.

“Come on, you two,” he remarked, eyes twinkling. “Keep moving.”

Virgil obeyed instantly, his cheeks going pink as he hurried to catch up, but Scott hung behind to slip a TI business card into the hand of a pretty coed.  _ “Scott, _ ” Jeff warned, and with a stage-whispered  _ call me _ , Scott bounded up the steps two at a time.

Virgil shook his head. “How do you keep track of all the girls you give your number to?”

Scott shrugged. “I don’t. I figure if I gave some girl my number, she must be worth a second look.”

Virgil snorted. “Nice strategy. Remind me never to take dating tips from  _ you _ .”

His older brother quirked an eyebrow. “Who said anything about  _ dating? _ ”

Virgil winced. “And that was just a little more information than I needed, thanks.”

Scott flung an arm around Virgil’s shoulder. “Let’s just say that if the bed in the penthouse had an odometer, we’d need to trade it in by now.”

“Gross.” Virgil ducked out from under Scott’s arm. “I’ve _ slept  _ in that bed.”

Scott snickered as Virgil pulled ahead to climb the steps beside their father. He glanced over his shoulder, then turned to survey the crowd and the white-clad athletes below. Parents and students milled about, finding seats and chatting, and farther beyond, the floor of the gymnasium stretched away, paved with thick blue mats and dotted with fencers and judges.  Scott scanned the athletes, and broke into a grin when he spotted a tall student whose bright copper hair shone like a beacon. With a backward glance at his father and brother, he trotted back down the steps and stopped at the edge of the mat.

“John!” he called, and the slender student turned around, his face lighting with a smile. With a nod to the coach, he broke away and strode across the mat toward Scott, mask in hand and long legs eating up the distance in moments.

“Hey, you made it.” Pleasure at seeing his eldest brother sparked in the depth of John’s turquoise eyes, and then he raised his gaze to the stands, searching out the other familiar faces.  When he spotted Jeff and Virgil, he raised his arm and gave them a wave, grinning when Virgil cupped his hands around his mouth and hooted  _ Yo, Johnny! _

“Gordon sends his best,” Scott remarked, as John turned back to him. “So do Alan and Grandma. Kayo and Kyrano said to break a leg.”

A modicum of regret darkened the sea-glass irises. “Wish they could have been here. If I advance, maybe they can come to the final.”

Scott thwapped John’s shoulder. “Whaddya mean, _ if  _ you advance? You’re what, third?”

“Fifth,” John corrected him. “I lost a match this morning; a stupid mistake. Thanks for the vote of confidence, though.”

Behind them, a tone sounded, and the athletes began to head to their places while the crowd hurried to find seats. “That’s your cue, Zorro,” Scott quipped, and pulled John into a quick hug. “Knock ‘em on their asses, Tracy.”

John blushed. “I’ll sure as hell try.” He turned and trotted back to his place as Scott climbed the steps to where Jeff and Virgil waited.

****

_ -Earlier that morning- _

Two young men in the jeans-and-Oxford uniform of graduate students walked across the athletic compound and around the back of the gymnasium, looking for all the world as if they belonged there. One of them casually stopped beside a nondescript door while the other stood nearby, and in a few moments, both were slipping inside and shutting the door behind them.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” the one who had stood lookout whispered harshly in the echoing space of the service hallway. “They’re gonna know who it was, Randy.”

Randall Quinn, Economics major and, after last evening’s round of matches, currently second place in the épée rankings of the MIT Fencing Team, darted a hazel-eyed glance left and right as they came to a junction in the corridors. “They won’t if you keep your mouth shut,” he muttered. The harsh lights gleamed on his thick dark hair, illuminating his strong jaw and aquiline nose. “Come on.”

Turning toward the equipment room, Randall walked steadily, unhurried, and got into his own locker. “Here, Bax,” he said, thrusting a gym bag at his blond, pug-nosed co-conspirator. “Make yourself useful for once.”

Aidan Baxter, not having as much luck or skill as either Randy or the intended target of this morning’s errand, had been knocked from fifth to eleventh in the ranks. He’d have to win all the rest of his matches just to keep his dismal ranking, and Randy put those odds at about slim to none.  That ginger giraffe, Tracy, had slipped ahead of Aidan, and in a few short hours, would go toe to toe with Tyler Buckingham, currently in the first place slot.

A slow, ugly smile spread across Randy’s face as he thrust items into the worn duffel in order to get at the fencing bag stashed at the back of his locker. Opening a pocket, he withdrew a pair of heavy gloves, then reached inside the bag to retrieve a gleaming épée. “That show-off Buckingham is never gonna know what hit him,” he growled.

Aidan frowned and lowered the bulging carry-all. “I don’t get it,” he remarked. “He’s got his own stuff.”

Randy glared at him. “Of course he does, dummy. However, we’re gonna make a little substitution for our pal Bucks.” He tipped the gleaming blade this way and that in the light. “His first blade isn’t gonna last much longer, due to some...special modifications I made to it last night. This,” he continued with a nod to the metal in his hand, “is gonna be his replacement.” 

“So?” Aidan shifted from one foot to another. “What’s so special about this one?”

Randall grabbed a sheet of paper from his locker, tossed it in the air, and swished the épée neatly through it. Aidan goggled as twin leaves of white paper fluttered to the concrete floor.

“No way,” Aidan breathed. “He’ll murder Tracy with that thing.”

Randall moved quietly over to the locker labeled with BUCKINGHAM, T written on a strip of masking tape above the door. “Don’t be dramatic, Bax. I like Jay, he’s a good guy, if a little square. He’s just gonna be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”  

With a quick prod of a pair of stiff wires into the lock, the mechanism on Tyler’s locker gave a click, and the door swung open. Randy unzipped Tyler’s equipment bag, pulled out the replacement épée that all competitors were required to have in the event of breakage, and carefully stowed the duplicate épée--with one of its three edges sharpened to a fare-thee-well--in its place.  With a satisfied smirk, Randy zipped up the equipment bag, re-locked the door, and reached to stash the extra sword high atop of the bank of lockers. He pulled his gloves off and stuffed them into the duffel in Aidan’s hands, then shoved the bag in his own locker and shut the door.

“Now,” Randy said, dusting off his hands, “it’s all over but the shouting. Ol’ Bucks will be disqualified--banned, more likely--and yours truly will humbly accept first place.” He turned to stare at Aidan. “Oh, and by the way--breathe a word of this, and I’ll make sure those photos of you with the ladies’ lacrosse coach find their way--anonymously, of course--to the dean’s desk before the day is out.”

*****

Up in the stands, the three Tracys watched as John made his way toward his opponent. John smiled at the equally tall brunet grad student, ducking his head at something the other man said, a faint blush spreading across his nose. Scott smiled to himself; the other--a T. Buckingham, from the name displayed on the lit marquee at the judges’ console--must have said something complimentary. John wasn’t much for small talk and had always been shy, but around family or discussing a favorite subject, the redhead could be just as garrulous as the rest of his brothers. He wondered briefly if John might have a bit of a crush on this Buckingham; the guy was good looking and seemed to be friendly, from the way he rested a gloved hand on John’s shoulder before giving him the good-luck fist-bump of a teammate.

As the two fencers moved into position on the mat, the judge came forward to speak with both combatants. Each nodded, then tapped their blades together and headed toward their respective corners. John’s face was composed as the mask dropped forward to hide his intense sea-glass gaze, and once again a smile touched Scott’s lips as his gangly brother slipped into an elegant stance of readiness. At home, John was forever tripping over his own feet and knocking things over with his long arms, almost as if he couldn’t figure out where to put his own body in three dimensions. However, as the judge’s faint call of “Allez!” floated over the busy gym, John became grace personified, lunging and feinting and seeking out his opponent’s blade with laser-keen focus.

Virgil’s voice was in Scott’s ear. “D’ya know what he’s doing?”

Scott shook his head. “Other than trying to stab the other guy, no clue,” he murmured back. “Just when I think Jay’s made the point, it goes to the other guy, and vice versa.” Down on the floor, John and Buckingham rushed at each other, John’s épée swirling and slashing with menacing precision until it made contact at some point too quick for Scott’s eyes to follow. The two broke apart and headed back to reset their positions, and Virgil elbowed Scott in the ribs as the 00 next to TRACY, J flipped to 01.

In the next few minutes, the score changed several times, with each combatant steadily gaining points. Then, as Buckingham lunged and pressed the tip of his épée into John’s shoulder, he seemed to stumble, and John staggered back as if he’d lost his footing. The judge came forward to halt the match, and Buckingham and John pulled off their helmets to reveal reddened faces and hair plastered to their foreheads. All three seemed to be examining the sword Buckingham held, and in a few moments, the brunet shook his head. John’s mouth moved, the corners turning down in a sympathetic frown, and he moved back toward his own starting position as Buckingham set down his mask and knelt at the small pile of his gear at the edge of the mat. 

“Looks like Buckingham busted his blade,” said Jeff on Scott’s other side. “Tough break. He’ll have to change for his spare.”

As they watched, Buckingham withdrew a replacement épée from his gear bag, then picked up both it and his mask and headed back to his place. A few moment’s work, and the épée, with its wire for indicating a touch embedded into the slender steel, was reattached to the bodycord under the form-fitting white jacket. Buckingham gave the épée a few experimental thrusts and swishes, then nodded to the judge and once again dropped his mask over his head.  Across the mat, John did the same, and paused for just a heartbeat before the call of “Allez!” came again.

Buckingham pressed his attack just as John lunged forward, and the épées flicked and twirled, mere slashes of quicksilver in the air.  Then the elegant line of John’s attack faltered, and Buckingham stumbled, nearly falling on his face as his arm jerked awkwardly. Both halted as the coach stepped up with a worried expression. Scott felt his gut clench as John wrested his mask off, a moment of agony flitting across the freckled face.

Virgil had seen it, too. “What’s going on?” he wondered aloud. On Scott’s other side, Jeff had come abruptly to attention at seeing his son in pain.

“I dunno,” Scott ventured, unease crawling along his spine. Down on the floor, John shook his head, making an effort to smile at Buckingham, but it came out as more of a grimace. Buckingham, who had doffed his own mask, shot John a worried look, but nodded and moved back to his place as the judge stepped back. 

Then Scott saw the line of red spreading along John’s left side, and the world stopped moving.

Virgil gasped. “What--” 

Scott might have gained wings for how quickly he was down the steps and running toward his brother. He reached the redhead just in time to hear Buckingham utter a startled curse and several nearby combatants gasp. John dropped his mask, and his épée fell from nerveless fingers to thump against the mat. As Scott reached him, John went to one knee, hurt and confusion turning his turquoise eyes to smoky jade.

“Johnny!” Scott caught him as he went down, sinking to the floor with his brother sprawled against him.

John swore under his breath. “That  _ hurt _ .”

“Lemme see.” Scott eased John to lay back on the mat, his fingers immediately going for the bloody slash in the once-white jacket. John hissed in pain as the fabric moved away to reveal a six-inch gash along John's ribs, welling with bright crimson. “Damn.” At the catch of John’s breath in his throat, Scott managed a tight smile. “You’re gonna be okay. Just a bad slice, probably gonna need some stitches. Lay still.”

Buckingham pressed through the onlookers, his face wearing an expression of worry that turned to horror when he saw the wound. “Oh, _ no _ ,” he breathed. He reached out a hand toward John, but Scott shielded his brother like a lion protecting a cub.

_ "Get back!” _ Scott snarled. “What the hell was that?” Scott glowered up at Buckingham as John began to tremble slightly in shock.

“I don’t know!” Buckingham’s sweaty face went sickly white. “These aren't supposed to be sharp at all, even the tip isn't sharp!” He turned and retrieved the weapon in question from where he'd dropped it, recoiling at the sight of brilliant red staining one edge.

“I'll take that,” barked the voice of an older man--the head judge, according to the brass name tag on his lapel. Buckingham immediately gave it into the judge's hands, and the man held it to the light to examine it.

“Is this your sword, Mr. Buckingham?” The judge asked, grey eyes grim.

“Of  _ course _ it is,” Tyler groaned, then stopped and took a good look. “Wait…that's a Belgian grip. I use a pistol grip.”  He pointed to the metal handle below the hand guard, which was sculpted with ridges and bumps. “I knew something was off but I was in a hurry--”

Jeff and Virgil were now beside Scott and John, and Jeff leveled a piercing gaze at Tyler. “Maybe you’d better explain yourself, young man.”

The medic and her strapping assistant had arrived on the scene, and were trying to extricate John from Scott’s grip. “It’s okay,” she soothed, ducking her head to look into Scott’s eyes. “We’ll take it from here.”

Jeff laid his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Let him go, son. He’s in good hands.”

Scott blinked, and relaxed his grip on his younger brother. John opened one eye and one corner of his mouth quirked in an attempt at a reassuring smile. “Thanks, Scotty,” he murmured, as the medic began to slice away the bloodstained jacket.

Soon, John’s body had relaxed with the help of some timely pain medication, and his pupils were wide by the time the medic had finished taping a large swath of gauze along his torso. A few steps away, Tyler, John’s coach, and the head judge were holding an intense but low-voiced conference over the gory blade, while Jeff stood and listened with full attention. Virgil and Scott hovered between the two groups, while the athletes lounged around the edges of the mats and the crowd milled restlessly on the perimeter.  

“I  _ swear _ , I put my replacement blade in my bag this morning and stored it in my locker,” Tyler was saying earnestly. “Someone must have jimmied the lock and swapped the blades.”

Jeff spoke up. “Is there anyone you know who would do such a thing?”

The judge and the coach glanced at each other, then looked back at Tyler. The athlete’s eyes went cold. “Yessir. I know someone who fits that description exactly.”

The coach stopped Tyler with a hand on his chest when the student would have stormed off to find his quarry then and there. “Wait, Ty. That’s a pretty serious accusation. Are you sure you wanna go after someone like this?”

Tyler’s jaw knotted. “Maybe it’s better I just tell you my suspicions.” He looked back over his shoulder at where the medic and her assistant were easing John onto a gurney. “For the record, I don’t think John was a target. I think this would have happened no matter who I was matched with today.”

Jeff raised an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

“Yessir, Mr. Tracy.” Tyler turned back to the head judge. “I think Randy Quinn did this.”

The coach’s frown deepened. “He’s in second place,” he remarked, then stopped--and looked toward the head judge. “Randy’s no angel; I’ve had to speak to him a few times this semester about being too aggressive. Still, this is a little much.”

The head judge considered this for a long moment, looked down at John’s blood on the sword, then cleared his throat. “I believe we need to have a conference with Mr. Quinn.” He gestured for one of his associate judges to come forward. “Would you please find Mr. Randall Quinn and ask him to come to the athletic office?”

Virgil gave Scott a triumphant smirk, then leaned down to clasp John’s hand in his own. “Y’hear that, Johnny? They’re gonna get the guy who did this to you.”

John blinked. “Tyler?” He frowned. “No, he’s...nice guy.” He smiled dopily. “Good kisser.”

 Virgil snorted, but Scott threw a poisonous glare at him before turning back to John. “Oh, uh, okay. No, some other guy, Quinn something. They’re thinking he swapped the blades so Tyler would be disqualified and he could slip into first place.”

John’s face darkened. “Quinn. So damn jealous. Good fencer but--” He broke off with a wordless cry as the medics raised the gurney.

“So sorry,” said the medic. “We’re gonna keep you as still as possible but there may be a few bumps.”

Scott ruffled John’s sweaty hair into copper cowlicks. “We’ll see you at the hospital, okay?”

John gave a tired smile and closed his eyes as Virgil gave him a one-armed hug and stepped away. As the medic wheeled the gurney through the gym, a smattering of applause followed the trio’s progress, and John waved a hand to show that he might be down, but not out.

*****

Two days later, the three eldest Tracys and their father strolled down the airport corridor toward the private jetway. John’s left arm rode in a sling to keep from pulling on his stitches, and there were purple smudges under his eyes, but he was upright and smiling. That, Scott mused, was more than he’d thought possible when he’d seen the crimson bloom against John’s side.

“Too bad we had to miss Tyler’s title match,” John was saying. “I’m told it was pretty exciting.”

“You guys gonna do anything to celebrate?” Virgil teased.

John smiled shyly. “Yeah, we made some plans. Just dinner, no drinks while I’m still on the sauce,” he joked, lifting his elbow a fraction in its sling.

“Good idea.” Jeff gave John’s back a fatherly pat. “Well, time for us to get going. Counting the days till the holiday break; do you think you’ll be able to get away?”

“I think so. How about you, Virg?”

Virgil thought for a moment. “I think I’ll be able to, yeah.” He glanced at Scott, who rolled his eyes.

“I’ll be in some desert somewhere, eating dehydrated turkey and mashed potatoes,” he quipped. “Merry Christmas to me.”

Jeff hugged John gently, then stepped back to let Virgil do the same. “Take care of yourself, John. Give us a call if you need anything. Scott, we’ll take off when you’re ready.”

“Seeya, Jaybird.” Virgil waved, then followed his father out the door to where Tracy-One waited on the tarmac.

Scott turned to John and just looked at him for a moment, as if trying to imprint his little brother’s features onto his brain. “Don’t know when I’ll get back home, so don’t forget what I look like, okay?”

John peered up at his big brother. “So, who are you again?” He broke into a grin, and let himself be enfolded into a hug. “Thanks for being here.”

“Try not to get yourself stabbed again while I’m out of the country.” Scott hugged as tight as he dared without putting pressure on the stitches.

“I’ll try. Not likely, since Quinn and that pig Baxter have been sent up the river.” He gave a dramatic wheeze. “Mind the ribs, Scotty.”

“Sorry.” Scott broke away and stepped back a few feet. “Send me a text now and then, tell me how you’re doing.”

John made shooing motions. “Stop being a big brother and get outta here.”

Scott did so, but as he boarded Tracy-One, he couldn’t help one last look back at the solitary figure standing at the window. He gave one last wave, and John responded with his good hand. Just before Scott turned to go, Tyler Buckingham trotted up the hallway toward John, slowing as he reached the redhead. John pointed out the window at the waiting aircraft, and both students waved.

As they turned to go, Scott smiled to himself as Tyler slipped his hand into John’s.

\--End--


	2. Bloody Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In rescue, you expect a certain amount of blood...just not your own.

**_AN: Second installment of Whumptober_ ** **.**

 

**Bloody Hands**

_ In the rescue business, you expect a certain amount of blood...just not your own _ .

 

Alan’s favorite color is red. 

This works in his favor, since his baldric and trim are red, not to mention the great red lady who sits in her silo waiting for him to literally rocket to the moon.

However, there are some instances that Alan’s favorite color is not red.

Poison oak. Road rash. Nosebleed. Kool-aid mustache. And....whatever’s causing the blood on his hands.

Oh, right. There was a dog. A big dog. A big, scary, barky dog that didn’t realize Alan was trying to help rescue his owner from a collapsed house.

Alan looks down at his left leg, where the dog’s mouthful of razor sharp teeth dug and scraped messy furrows in first  the neoprene of his suit, then his pale skin. The leg aches and throbs, and once more he presses his hands against the wounds.

He closes his eyes and nudges the iR logo on his baldric with his chin. “Thunderbird...Three...calling...International...Rescue.” The pain steals his breath, forcing him to bite the words off and blow them out on the exhale.

His radio crackles to life. “Hang on, Alan,” John replies, his voice steady. “They’re almost to you. I want you to unlatch your anchor strap and put it around your thigh, okay?”

It’s getting hard to concentrate, but Alan shakes himself and unclamps one hand from his leg to do as John directs him. Fresh trickles of red seep from the wounds, dripping into the small pool already on the concrete where he sits. The edges of his vision begin to swim with black and grey cobwebs, and nausea crawls up the back of his throat.

_ “Alan,”  _ John barks in his ear. “You need to get your belt off and make a tourniquet or you’ll bleed out before they get there.”  His voice breaks on the last word. “Come on, little brother. Stick with me.”

It’s slow going, but Alan manages to unlatch the red anchor strap from his baldric and slip it off his right thigh, then drape it over his left just above the bite marks and clip it back into place.  Slowly, he pulls the strap tight, sending out a new wave of crimson aches, but then his leg falls halfway asleep and the blood slows to an ooze. With a satisfied sigh, he leans his head back against the ruined wall and closes his eyes.

The next thing he knows, he’s being carried. He snuggles closer into the chest that oddly enough smells of rubber and grease and jet fuel, feeling like he hasn’t felt since he was little. Safe. Cared for. Loved.  His leg isn’t even hurting anymore, and he smiles.

“Alan!” Something shakes him, hard, and he groans in protest. “Don’t fall asleep,” grits the voice. He knows who it belongs to, someone kind and patient, someone dependable as the mountains, but the name flits away.

Nothingness descends, but it’s a good nothingness, a holding pattern. There’s no pain, no fear, just grey emptiness, and he’s content to wait.

When he surfaces, someone has cleaned the blood off his hands.

He’s in a hospital room full of white--his least favorite color, unless it’s mashed potatoes or Kansas snow or vanilla ice cream. Sheets, walls, furniture, everything is white, which makes it hard to miss the man sitting in the chair beside the bed.

The man is as colorful as the room is colorless: Dark hair, dark jeans, and a shirt of flaming red buffalo check. Alan’s brain gropes for half a second, then: Virgil. Older brother. Rescue. Blue and green. Piano.

He reaches out with a hand no longer stained with blood, and touches Virgil’s cheek. The big man snorts and jerks awake, dark eyes finally coming to rest on Alan.

“Hey, kiddo,” Virgil breathes, and takes Alan’s hands into his own. “Welcome back.”

 

-End-


	3. Insomnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gordon is acting strange, and Scott means to find out why.

**_AN: Third installment of Whumptober._ **

 

**Insomnia**

_ Gordon is acting strange, and Scott means to find out why. _

 

It’s three a.m. and Scott stumbles to the kitchen, in search of an antacid.  _ Grandma’s cooking strikes again _ , he thinks, opening a cabinet to the nostrums (paracetamol, milk of magnesia, Nyquil, Pepto Bismol) not kept in the infirmary. Finding the bottle, he pops two tablets and chews, grimacing at the chalky texture, then goes to the fridge and pours himself a glass of milk. He stands at the counter to drink it, some corner of his mind vaguely registering the flicker and dance of light reflected in the windows.

With a frown, he finishes the milk, leaves his glass in the sink, and goes to investigate. The vidscreen is on, and a solitary figure is silhouetted by the silent gorefest on the screen. The figure’s hair is rumpled and its outline is made shapeless by a blanket, but the tiny clicks and taps of a game controller let Scott know that the figure is not asleep. He approaches the edge of the sunken lounge on silent feet, and the ghostly light paints familiar features into view.

Gordon.

Amber eyes flick; hands operate on autopilot. Gordon’s reaction time is flawless, something he jokingly attests to his skill at video games, but in reality it’s something he was born with, honed further by his WASP training--and, yes, Scott grudgingly admits, years spent attacking the hordes of the undead on the screen.

“Hey, fishie,” Scott says, low. “How about some racktime, huh?”

“Can’t sleep,” Gordon replies, distracted. Another zombie expires in a burst of viscera, and Scott grimaces.

“Maybe it’d help if you, y’know, did something else,” Scott suggests.

Gordon’s eyes are still trained on the screen. “Like what?”

“I dunno. Read a book, or chill with some music. How about some cocoa?”

“No thanks.”

Scott considers yanking the plug out of the console, but then stops. Gordon’s grown; he’s not a little kid or even a teenager anymore, he can handle his own life and decisions without a big brother’s oversight. However, he is part of a five-man team that needs to be at their best at all times, and that big brother is also the field commander of said team.

 _“Gordon.”_ Scott resorts to the Dad Voice. “Turn it off and get to bed. Now.”

A sigh. “Okay.” The screen dies and Gordon stretches, his joints popping, and Scott is reminded once again that Gordon’s joints have been through a lot in his twenty-odd years of life. Gordon gets to his feet and gathers up the blanket, leaving the console on the couch. He ascends the steps and walks past Scott, his armful of granny squares trailing on the boards, and gives his brother and commander an offhand wave. “G’night, Scotty.”

Scott is about to wish Gordon the same when he catches a glimpse of Gordon’s face, and what he sees has his hand shooting out to catch his second-to-youngest brother by the arm and hauling him back. “What the--”

The amber irises Scott knows so well are dull and glassy, the white around them an angry pink-red veined with scarlet. Blue smudges mar the tanned skin beneath those bloodshot orbs, and the cheekbones are just a little too sharp for Scott’s liking. When had  _ this _ happened?

“I told you,” Gordon mutters. “I can’t sleep.”

Scott frowns. “How long has this been going on?”

The aquanaut shrugs. “What day is it?”

Alarm trills in the back of Scott’s mind, as well as a hefty dose of self-recrimination. They’ve been busy, but still, the excuse for not noticing his younger brother’s distress is a hollow one. “It’s Weds--well, Thursday, now.” Scott takes Gordon’s stubbled chin in his hand and tilts the angular face to the light. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks.” The flat word, unaccompanied by a smart remark, worries Scott even more. “Can I go now, so I can stare up at the ceiling for the next few hours?”

“No.” Scott leads him over to the kitchen table and points at a chair. “Sit.”

Gordon complies, throwing his blanket over him until he’s peering out from its folds like a sickly turtle. “How about some coffee?”

“Is that what you’ve been doing?” Scott growls. “Dosing yourself with caffeine so you can go on calls?”

“Just doing what we have to do.” Gordon yawns and picks at a loose piece of yarn. “I’m all right.”

“No, you’re not. In fact, you’re not going anywhere until you get at least twelve uninterrupted hours of sleep.” Scott folds his arms, glaring at his little brother, daring him to resist.

It’s then that Scott realizes Gordon’s face is...shiny.  Moonlight is reflecting off Gordon’s face with a liquid glint, and Scott feels like someone’s shoved a dagger up through his ribs into his heart.

Gordon is crying. And, from the looks of it, he has no idea.

“Gordy,” Scott says gently, then stops.

“It’s just that when I try to sleep, she’s there,” the aquanaut begins, as if they’ve been in the middle of this conversation all along. “I tried to keep her head up but the water just kept coming in.” He draws a shaky sigh. “She asked me…” His face creases into a grimace that looks so much like laughter that the hair stands up on the back of Scott’s neck. “She asked me what drowning felt like.”

“No,  _ Gordon-- _ ”

“I  _ lied _ to her, Scotty.” Now the words are coming on the ends of his hitching breaths. “I told her it was like going to sleep. I told her not to be afraid. She held her breath as long as she could. I tried to keep her up but there wasn’t any air left and Virgil hadn’t cut through yet and I--”  His head falls to the table, great wracking sobs shaking his frame. “She fought and fought and I pounded on that hull so hard, I thought I broke my hand, and then--she just--left.” He curls his arms around his head, fingers knotting in his hair. “I can still feel her in my arms. She was so heavy, and then all of a sudden she didn’t weigh anything.”

Scott closes his eyes briefly as the dagger twists in his chest. He rises from his seat to kneel next to Gordon, pulling the aquanaut into his arms, and Gordon clings as if he’s the one drowning now.

“I’m sorry,” Scott murmurs against his temple. “I’m sorry.”

Soon, the sobs turn to hiccoughs, and the hiccoughs to sniffles, and finally, just as the sun begins to peek over the horizon, the sniffles turn to snores.  Scott’s rear end is numb from sitting on the floor; his legs are cramping and he’s cold, but still he sits beside Gordon and slowly cards his fingers through his little brother’s honey-blond cowlicks. Gordon stirs briefly, curling into a tighter ball under the worn afghan before giving a soft sigh and resuming his snores.

“Sweet dreams, fishie,” Scott whispers, as the sun scatters diamonds over the Pacific.

-End-


	4. "No, stop!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, you just can't help the knee-jerk reaction.

**_AN: Day four of Whumptober._ **

 

**“No, Stop!”**

_ Sometimes we just can't help the knee-jerk reaction. _

 

“Scott?”

A whimper.

Virgil chewed his lip, thinking. There was no help for it; he'd have to have a light.  Maybe at its lowest setting, it'd be all right. “I'm gonna turn on a light,” he warned gently. “Close your eyes if you want.”

No answer.

A click, and the LED on Virgil's shoulder painted the interior of Thunderbird One with white light, reflecting on something brilliant on the floor.

Blood. Splatters of it lay on the deck, drips and drops leading in a telling trail toward the back of the cabin. Slowly, Virgil moved along the trail until his light met two scuffed boots.

“Scott.” Virgil swept the light up the quivering blue-clad form of his eldest brother, his heart squeezing painfully in his chest as Scott cringed away from the light. Worst of all was the slick of brilliant red staining the front of Scott's uniform, soaking into the fabric as the pilot clutched his bloody right arm to his chest.

Blue eyes, frozen wide in a scuffed, pale face under disheveled brown hair, fastened on Virgil, yet didn't seem to see him. The wiry frame shuddered as blood continued to drip from between the fingers of his left hand. “No,” Scott whispered harshly. “S-stay away.”

“You're in shock,” Virgil soothed. “Let's have a look at your arm, okay?” He reached out and gently touched Scott's elbow, but the pilot pressed himself into the bulkhead. “Come on now. Let me see.”

“N-no! _ ” _

Even injured and delirious, Scott was quick, and Virgil had to move fast to grab him when he would have tried to escape. “Scotty, I'm trying to help you,” he gritted, trying not to touch the savaged arm.

_ “No, stop!” _

Scott's foot landed in Virgil's belly, sending the breath out of the bigger man in a ragged  _ whoof! _ of air. Still, Virgil advanced on his injured brother, until he had Scott's face between his hands. “Look at me, Scotty,” Virgil wheezed. “Look at me. It's Virgil. I'm here to help you.”

Scott blinked. “V-Virg?” He glanced down at his wounded limb. “My...my arm hurts.”

“I know. Can I see?” Virgil stepped back a half-step, hands slipping from Scott's face to hover above the bloody ruin that was Scott's right arm. “I'll be as gentle as I can.”

Wordlessly, Scott eased his fingers away, and Virgil got his first good look: A jagged piece of metal had been thrust clear through the forearm; how it had missed any major blood vessels was nothing short of a miracle. “We're gonna have to get you to a hospital. Let's go over to Thunderbird Two and get you feeling a little more comfortable.”

“But…’One?” Scott's eyes hadn't fully lost their wild, delirious look. “Don't wanna leave her here.”

“I'll have John remote her back home. She'll be safe.” Virgil tugged gently at Scott's good arm. “Let's go.”

Finally, Scott gripped Virgil's hand with his good hand and let Virgil lead him toward safety.

 

Later, after the two-hour surgery where the metal had painstakingly been removed and all nerves and blood vessels had been deemed sound or been repaired, Scott lay dozing in recovery, Virgil by his side.  The blue eyes flickered, then opened halfway to fix on the younger man, and a smile quirked one edge of Scott's mouth.

“Hi.”

“Hi yourself,” Virgil volleyed back. “How are you?”

“I'm okay-- thanks to you.” Scott frowned. “Did I kick you?”

“Yeah. I can see the tread on your boot.”

Scott winced. “Ooh. Sorry about that.”

Virgil chuckled-- albeit gently, to save his sore belly. “It's okay. I've had worse.”

“Yeah, you have.” A sigh. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

 

-End-


	5. Poisoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of... unconventional... training is I'm the offing at Creighton Ward Manor when Virgil drops in for tea.

**_AN: Day Five of Whumptober. TRIGGER WARNING: Roofie/being slipped a mickey, assault (non-sexual) while under the influence_ **

  
  


**Poisoned**

_ A bit of...unconventional...training is in the offing at Creighton-Ward Manor when Virgil drops in for tea. _

  
Virgil had never been much of a tea drinker. However, since he’d been in London seeing Grandma off on her trip to Ireland with the tour group, Penny had asked him to tea and he’d accepted before jetting back to Tracy Island.

And besides, tea at Penny’s meant not only cups of scalding hot brew that he could douse liberally with milk and sugar, it meant cookies baked to a perfect golden brown rather than burnt to unrecognizable cinders.  It meant an excuse to indulge in childhood pleasures like frosted cakes and sausage rolls, where everyone at home constantly ate for peak performance. In fact, Virgil thought to himself, stirring his caramelly tea, the closest anyone got to ‘junk food’ on the island were microwavable veggie burgers and the occasional box of Fruity O’s.

“Thanks for having me, Pen,” he said before taking a polite slurp of tea. “Been a while since I’ve had the pleasure.”

Penny smiled and fed Sherbet a piece of salmon from a crustless sandwich. “I’m glad you had some time to spare,” she replied, as the pug wolfed down the morsel and pawed at her leg for more. “Down, Bertie,” she told the dog, who hung his head and jumped down only to toddle over to Virgil and whine pitifully.

 

"Sorry, bud,” Virgil told him. “Mum says no.” Sherbert snorted, and both Virgil and Penny chuckled as the dog turned tail and flopped peevishly on his cushion in the corner.

“I’m afraid he’s a bit spoiled,” Penny said with a twinkle in her ice blue eyes. “My aunt Sylvia was here yesterday and she can never resist his charms.” The door behind them opened to admit Parker carrying an antique silver teapot on a tray, along with another plate of the cookies Virgil had decimated. “Ah, Parker. Thank you. Shall I warm your cup, Virgil?” She plucked the pot off the tray as Parker set the cookies down on the low table between them.

“Yes, please.” Virgil held out the cup on its flowered saucer, releasing it to Penny as she filled it and added milk and sugar to turn it the same color it had been. She handed it back, and Virgil snagged another cookie--his last, he told himself firmly--before taking another swallow of the comfortably warm, sweet beverage.  “I’d ask Grandma to adopt teatime at home, only--”

He stuttered to a halt. What had he been talking about?

He shot a glance at Penny, who sat before him unchanged, her face composed, her body relaxed.

“Virgil? Is everything all right?”

_ No, _ he wanted to say, but he couldn’t force his tongue and larynx and brain to work together. Something was very, very wrong.

An icy trickle of dread slid down his spine. He had to get out of there.  _ Now _ .

Slowly, he put the half-eaten cookie on the saucer and leaned forward to place the cup on the table, but the world tilted and he ended up tipping forward to crash atop the table, sending hydrangeas and china and French fashion magazines scattering in all directions.

Penny leaned over him, a frown line between her manicured brows. “Terribly sorry about this, dear. I do hope you’ll forgive me. It’s nothing personal.”

For a moment, Virgil could only stare up at her, his mind blank. Then something deep inside his gut kicked in, and with a herculean effort, he struggled to hands and knees. The room was spinning, but he eventually managed to stand. He had to get out before--

A fist plowed into his solar plexus, threatening to expel the afternoon’s repast into the face of his assailant.  Before Virgil could recover, another fist rammed into his jaw, and the taste of blood bloomed over the tannin of tea and sweetness of shortbread.

“Come on, Master Virgil,” Parker snarled, dancing backward. “Git yer wits h’about yeh and set about gettin’ h’out that door.”

Penny had scooped up Sherbet and was now seated on a striped fainting couch across the room. “Hit him again, Parker,” she called, as Bertie yapped out a sharp litany of canine curses. “Don’t let him get away.”

Parker’s grey eyes were grim as he flexed his gloved hands. “No, m’lady.”

_ Exercise _ , the thought blurred across Virgil’s mind. This was an exercise to train him how to escape after being slipped a mickey. He wondered idly if the poison had been in the teapot or if Penny had dosed his cup when she prepped it, or if somehow the icing in the teacake had been laced with some mind-altering substance.  Scott had gone through this once with her, only his trial was over dinner; John had succumbed over a glass of wine. Virgil suspected Gordon and Alan would have their turn sometime, but at the moment, he was too busy surviving his own ordeal to summon much sympathy.

The door was only a few feet behind Parker, but whichever way Virgil turned, Parker was in his face. With his reaction time shot to hell, Virgil suffered a few embarrassing open-handed slaps before pulling his arms up to shield his head.

“That’s th’ way,” Parker crowed. “Now yer gittin’ it. Let’s play ‘keep away from ol’ Parker.’”

“M’ trying,” Virgil gritted. He threw a haymaker, but the older man dodged it easily.

“Cor, y’gonna hafta do be’er than tha’.” Parker picked up the silver salver he’d delivered the teapot on and whanged Virgil a ringing blow on the top of the head, nearly sending the younger man to his knees. “Yer in Parker’s ‘ouse, and we fights dur’ey.”

“Keep your head up, Virgil!” Penny’s voice was like the crack of a whip. “Get out that door!”

Maybe it had been all the carbs Virgil had consumed along with the doctored tea, but suddenly he felt a moment of clarity amongst the cobwebs, and he sent Parker reeling with a left to the jaw. Flesh met flesh with a satisfying crack, and the bodyguard staggered back a half-step. “Yeh, that’s th’way,” he sputtered. “Yer gettin’ it now. Stick with it; keep yer focus.”

Through the pounding in his head, Virgil fixed his eyes on the rectangle of wood that spelled his freedom, and headed toward it with single-minded attention. Unfortunately, obstacles had been scattered across his path, and his poor reflexes meant that the next step sent him falling headlong to the plush carpet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Parker heading for him, so he rolled instead of landing flat, which carried him nicely beyond Parker’s grasping hands. Leaning forward on his hands, Virgil kicked out with his right foot, connecting with Parker’s ankles and effectively toppling the bodyguard to the floor.

“Gotcha.” Virgil was up and moving before Parker got to his feet, and Virgil’s hand was just closing over the knob when something jumped onto his back and clung like a limpet. A flash of gold swirled in his vision, and he let out a bellow of pain as something sharp drove into the arch of his right foot.

“My turn,” Penny purred in his ear, locking her hands around his throat and digging her nails in from behind.  A flash of sparring with Kayo flew through his mind, sending a jolt of muscle memory into his shaking limbs; he spun on his heel, then raised his arms over his head and pulled hard at her jumper while tucking into a crouch.  With a squawk, Penny flew up and over to land hard on her back, her head swimming in chunky knit fabric. Sherbet barked incessantly from somewhere around his ankles, and Virgil seized him by the scruff of the neck to toss him-- _ gently, this was only an exercise, after all _ \--out of the way.

Shooting to his feet nearly made him black out, but he managed to stay upright even as his head spun and the blood roared in his ears. A quick, dizzying turn and he was once again facing the door--only to find that Parker was once again in his way.  On the floor, Penny was still struggling to free herself from the confines of her sweater and Sherbert was still loudly proclaiming his indignation at his rough treatment. Virgil forced himself to focus--no easy task, since his tea was now crawling up his esophagus--and sent a knee plowing into Parker’s groin. With an agonized shout, Parker crumpled into a heap and went rolling, knees clamped together.

Virgil yanked open the door and bolted for freedom, managing to get all the way out the front hall and down the portico steps before hurling into the boxwood hedge.

When he’d finished giving Merrie Olde England back her tea, Virgil shakily raised his head and accepted a damp towel from an utterly disheveled Parker. Penny was wobbling her way down the steps, Sherbet in her arms, her hair and clothes showing evidence of a hasty tidying. “You did marvelously,” she commended him. “I told Parker to give you a good walloping.”

“That he did.” Virgil wiped his face. “Which one of you spiked the tea?”

“That was me, I’m afraid,” Penny said with a sigh. “It was in the milk. If you’d let the tea sit, it would have curdled; a classic telltale sign.” She stepped forward and kissed his cheek. “These little sessions are terribly distressing, but in our business, they’re a necessary evil.”

Virgil reached out to scratch Sherbet behind the ears, and the pug wiggled happily, their friendship restored. “I know. I’m sure you’ll be giving Scott a full report?”

“Yes.” Penny turned to her long-suffering bodyguard, who had set about straightening his own clothes and smoothing his hair back into order. “Tip-top as usual, Parker. You haven’t missed a step.”

“Thank you, m’lady.” He turned to Virgil and offered him a hand. “No ‘ard feelin’s, Master Virgil?”

“None at all,” Virgil assured him, returning the handshake. “Although I have a feeling that’s my  last cup of tea for a good long while.”

 

\--End--


	6. Betrayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Infidelity, m/m relationship
> 
> Having a heart means that it can be broken.

**_AN: Day six of Whumptober. This is for Madame Winter, who asked for more soft gay!John._ **

 

**_WARNING: Infidelity, m/m relationship_ **

  
  


**Betrayed**

_ Having a heart means that it can be broken. _

 

“Happy Anniversary,” said Tyler, laying a single rose on John’s bare chest. The bright orange petals deepened into red at their tips, and John smiled as he picked it up and gave it a long sniff. The fragrance reminded him vaguely of tangerines, and he turned his head to smile up into the deep brown eyes of its giver.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Tyler Buckingham lay beside him, head propped on one elbow. “I got it because it reminded me of your hair.” Tyler’s fingers raked through the messy flop of John’s coppery fringe, then leaned down to brush his lips against the redhead’s. “You’re amazing.”

To cover his shy smile, John sniffed the rose again. “You’d better get going,” he reminded his lover of exactly one year’s time. “You don’t want to be late on my account.”

Tyler plucked the rose from John’s fingers and dropped it into the glass of water on the bedside table. “Screw ‘em,” he quipped, then turned back and ran his knuckles against John’s high cheekbone. “You’re worth being late a thousand times over.”

In answer, John reached up and brought Tyler’s mouth back down to his, wrapping his arms around his classmate and lover. Tyler pulled John over, and the sheets slipped away from John’s slight, alabaster frame.

“Ty,” John protested, though his lover’s hands were already wandering into places that made him want Tyler to stay.

“You started it,” Tyler breathed between kisses. “Come on, we’ve got time for a quickie, haven’t we?”

John laughed into Tyler’s mouth. “You’re hopeless.”

“Mmm, that’s not a ‘no’.”

It wasn’t, and it didn’t take much more convincing for John to give himself over to a sweet, if brief, demonstration of his lover’s affection. When they were both spent and gasping, John gave Tyler one last kiss and pushed against his chest.

“Go,” he urged, still a little breathless. “Before you have to explain why you’re late.”

Tyler grinned and rose from the bed. “They're gonna take one look at my face and know  _ exactly _ why I'm late.”

John threw a pillow at him. “Don't tease. Either go now or call in sick and come back to bed.”

“ _ Now _ who's hopeless?” Tyler dodged the pillow and scurried into the bathroom out of the line of fire. Soon the shower was running and snatches of tuneless singing floated on the humid air, and John rose to stretch like a satisfied feline. After pulling the sheets back onto the bed and tossing their clothes into the laundry, John wandered into the bathroom.

“So are we staying in or going out tonight?” He asked, attending to his morning routine.

“Oh ho ho, I've got a surprise for you,” Tyler crowed. “I'm gonna take you to the Foundry.”

John, who by virtue of his upbringing had eaten his first solid food in four-star restaurants, raised an eyebrow. “Wow, we're getting posh,” he remarked. He flushed and washed up, then set about putting toothpaste on his toothbrush. “You sure your old man isn't gonna flip when he sees that bill on his AMEX statement?”

Tyler shut off the shower and grabbed a snowy towel embroidered with JGT from the heated rack. “Listen, I could care less what he thinks. I just wanna show everyone that yes, even nerdy Tyler Buckingham can score a hot boyfriend.” He winked and wrapped the towel around his waist. “Sort of an inspiration to all those lonely folks out there.”

John laughed and reached out to run his fingers through Tyler's wet hair. “I'm very flattered, but please don't get into trouble just for me. We can order in and it just be the two of us.”

“Hmm.” Tyler closed his eyes and leaned into John's touch. “That does sound tempting.” He opened his eyes and smiled, searching John's face with a loving gaze. “I was just kidding; I know how you hate being put on display. I just wanted to do something really special for you.”

John blushed at being caught out. “It's not only that,” he admitted, “but these days you're gone more and more at your dad's business, and when we graduate I'll be going to New York to work with my father. I don't know how much we'll be able to see each other.”

Filling his palm with a dollop of shaving cream, Tyler sighed. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about that.”

“We’re gonna have to, and soon.” John threaded his arms around Tyler from behind and laid his head on his lover’s back. “It’ll happen whether we talk about it or not, and I don’t want to face that unprepared.”

“I know.” Tyler shifted so they were both framed in the mirror. “We’ll figure it out.”  He spread the shaving cream on his face, then broke the solemn mood by decorating the end of John’s nose with a dot of white foam. “Time for you to get going too; you’ve got class this morning.”

John chuckled and turned away to turn the faucet back on, and was halfway through his shower when Tyler exited the bathroom to dress.  By the time John was cleaned up and had removed the ginger stubble on his chin, Tyler was dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a soft grey sweater over a bright white shirt and black tie. He was just lacing up his polished Oxfords when John came in trailing clouds of woodsy aftershave. “Cool outfit,” John remarked, tossing his own jeans and deep green henley on the bed. “Is that the sweater I got you for Christmas?”

“The very one,” Tyler quipped. “I thought I’d go for a ‘relaxed but still a grown-up’ vibe. They tend to be a little stiff over at Dad’s, and I’m hoping I can show them that you don’t have to wear an Armani suit to be an effective businessman.”

“I see. They’re still pretty old-school over at Tracy Industries,” John remarked, pulling on boxers and retrieving his socks from the dresser. “My dad believes in ‘clothes make the man’ and all that. I think he’d have a coronary if someone suggested they adopt casual Fridays.”

Tyler barked out a laugh. “Are you sure your dad and my dad aren’t the same guy?”

“Without a doubt.” John tugged on his jeans. “That’d make things really awkward for us.”

“Bleh, I don’t wanna think about that.” Tyler made a face, then gathered John back into his arms again. “I don’t want to think about anything but you.”

John’s heart gave a thump, and he leaned forward to tuck his head under Tyler’s chin. “I know. You’ve got to, though.” He pulled back far enough to press one last kiss against his lover’s mouth, then deliberately peeled Tyler’s hands off his body. “I meant what I said. Either go now or we’re going back to bed.”

Tyler raised both hands and backed away. “I’m going, I’m going.” He pointed at John. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“It’s a date.” John waved. “Be careful out there.”

“I will.” The door shut behind him, and John turned back to the bedroom with a fond smile.

Digging in his bureau once more, John brought out a well-worn NASA tee shirt and slipped it on, then grabbed up the henley and pulled it over the tee. When his socks and navy blue Chucks were on, he set about stripping the bed so the housekeeper could come by and pick up the sheets for washing.

When he grabbed up the sheet, a palm-sized square of black plastic clattered to the floor, and John stooped to pick it up with a sigh. “Ty, you’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached,” he remarked to the cell phone in his hand.  Dropping the sheets back onto the bed, John went to retrieve his own phone to alert Tyler via his smartwatch, but a small ‘ting’ from the phone stopped him in his tracks. On the screen was a text message:

_ Matt: <3 Good morning lover _

John blinked, wondering if he’d read it wrong. Had Tyler known he’d left his phone behind and sent him a message from his watch? He reread the text, his heart seizing up in his throat as he read the name again.

_ Matt. _

Who the  _ fuck _ was Matt?

Just then, another message appeared on the screen: Tyler was voice texting into his watch.

_ Tyler: Hey good morning handsome _

_ Matt: I missed you last night. You on your way? _

_ Tyler: Yeah, I’ll be there in a few. _

_ Matt: Can’t wait. _

_ Tyler: Me either. I can’t stay too long, I have something to do tonight. _

_ Matt: Is it your ex? Is he still in the hospital? _

_ Tyler: Yeah, he’s pretty sick. I feel bad, that’s why I haven’t told him about us. _

_ Matt: It’s probably better that way _

_ Tyler: Yeah _

John’s knees buckled and he sat down hard on the bed, shaking all over.  It had to be a joke, it had to be--but there was the evidence in his hand.

Another text appeared on the screen, blurry in John’s tear-filled vision.

_ Tyler: Damn. I forgot my phone. Hang on, I’ll run back and get it. Sorry to make you wait even longer but I promise it’ll be worth it. _

_ Matt: I’ll hold you to that promise, see you soon _

John felt a wave of nausea roll over him, and he tipped forward to sit with his head between his knees. “This is _ not _ happening,” he moaned. “This  _ can’t _ be happening.”

The door to the living room opened and quick steps crossed the living room. “Hey, hon, I left my phone,” came Tyler’s voice, breezy and unconcerned. “Did you happen to find--”  He stopped in the doorway, his words trailing off.

John raised a tear-stained face and held out the phone. “You left it on the bed.”

Tyler’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. He took the phone, but didn’t pursue John when the redhead yanked his hand away before he could come in contact with Tyler’s fingers.

“John, I--”

John shook his head.

“I need to--”

John pressed his hands over his ears, then his fingers crawled up to knot themselves in his hair.

“Just let me--”

John shot to his feet, eyes blazing turquoise fire. “ _ No _ , I will not let you.  _ No _ , you do not need to.  _ No _ .”

Tyler raked a hand through his dark hair. “I messed up, Johnny. I...I messed it up like I always mess it up and I’m  _ so fucking tired _ of doing that, you just don’t know.”

“Obviously there’s a _ lot  _ of things I don’t know,” John snorted.

“No, I mean it,” Tyler shot back. “I get with someone and things are fine and then...I mess it up.”

“You can’t keep it in your pants, you mean,” John snarled. “You’re sick.”

“No! It’s not like that.” Tyler sighed. “I get restless. I think, ‘this is great, but I wonder if there’s something else even better than this out there.’” He shook his head. “I told you it was messed up.”

“You’re damn right it is,” John retorted, hating how his voice broke. “I wasn’t good enough for you, I guess.”

Tyler took two steps toward John, hands outstretched, but John backed away like a wounded animal. “You  _ are _ . That’s the problem.”

“Oh, yeah, because solid monogamous relationships based on  _ love _ and  _ trust _ are  _ always a problem _ .” John let out a mirthless laugh. “ _ Goodbye _ , Tyler.”

“Wait. I need to explain this.”

John crossed his arms. “What could there possibly be left to explain? But I guess I’m a masochist, so go ahead, give it your best shot.”

Tyler looked down at the phone in his hands. “I started going with you because I thought you were that better thing.”

“ _ I  _ was the other guy?” John’s voice climbed. “You were still seeing someone when we got together?”

“Yeah.” Tyler gestured to the phone in his hand. “Matt.”

“That was a  _ year _ ago, Ty. A full  _ fucking year ago!” _ John pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I can’t believe this. I’m such an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Tyler retorted. “I knew you’d find out sooner or later, so...I was planning on telling him tonight.”

John raised a face that was once again wet with tears. “That’s so much bullshit.”

“It’s _not_ , I _swear._ We’ve been together a _whole year_ and I know that _this_ is the better thing, Johnny.”

“Don’t call me that.” John’s voice dripped ice.

Now it was Tyler’s voice that was breaking with tears. “ _ Please _ , John. Let me go and I’ll come right back and we can just go on from here.”

John wiped his tears with shaking fingers and dried them on his jeans. “Oh, I’ll let you go, Tyler. But you’re not coming back.”

 

_ \--Two weeks later-- _

 

Jeff sat down at the white-covered table, then looked up with a smile as the waiter handed him a leather-bound menu. Across from him, John accepted his own menu with a polite nod, and they sat in silence for a few moments as they perused the selections.

“I’m sorry you bowed out of the fencing tournament this year,” Jeff began, closing the menu and lying it on the table. “Senior year is the time for getting serious, though. It’s a wise decision.”

John laid his own menu aside, then sat back and fiddled with the shiny spoon. “Yeah, my defense for my master’s thesis is coming up, and my prep with my advisor is right in the middle of practice. The choice was sort of made for me.” John shrugged. “It’s okay. It was just something for fun.”

“How does Tyler feel about that?”

John’s eyes were still fastened on the utensils. “He’s not in any place to have an opinion.”

As his sons would say, Jeff’s dad-sense was tingling. “Oh? You don’t let him tell you what to do, is that it?”

“No, it’s _because I caught him cheating on me_ ,” John spat, tossing the spoon back onto the table. His lip quivered for just a moment, then he sighed and replaced the spoon with exquisite precision. “Two weeks ago, on our first anniversary.” John snorted, looking away. “I was such an idiot.”

Jeff’s face turned stormy. “John Glenn Tracy, don’t let me  _ ever _ hear you say that again. You are  _ not  _ an idiot. You are a very,  _ very _ smart man.”

“How does a smart man not know that his boyfriend is cheating on him for a whole year?” John finally looked at his father, dry-eyed but nearly vibrating with shame and anger. “Am I that much of a social misfit that I don’t know how basic human relationships work?”

“It’s because you were raised with things like  _ love _ and  _ trust _ that you’re a little nearsighted when it comes to the pettiness of this world, son,” Jeff assured him, ignoring the waiter that was hovering nearby. “Don’t ever, ever lose that.” He sighed, hurting for this, the most sensitive of his five children. “You’re like your mother, God rest her. She took everyone at face value. It blew up in her face from time to time, but she refused to let it change her.”

A solitary tear rolled down John’s cheek.“I loved him, Dad. I thought he loved me. What do I do now?”

Jeff wished John was still a child, so he could draw him into his arms and hug away his pain. The young man sitting before him still needed a father’s care, though, and Jeff gave him what he hoped was a wise, paternal smile in lieu of a hug. “You heal, son. You take time and heal. You cry, and you kick the walls, and you lay awake wondering how it could have been...and then before you know it, you’ve gone a whole day without thinking about them. You go to your favorite places, watch your favorite films, listen to your favorite music, and suddenly they’re just yours again.” He shrugged, not unkindly. “They fade into memories--some fond, some painful--and if you’re brave, you start over.”

John shook his head. “I don’t know if I’m brave.”

“You will be, son. Just give it time.”  He nudged John’s menu. “In the meantime, how about some chow? It’s easier to be brave on a full stomach.”

For what Jeff suspected was the first time in two weeks, John smiled. “Okay, Dad. Sounds like a good place to start.”

 

\--End--


	7. Kidnapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one is infallible.

**_AN: Day 7 of Whumptober_ ** .

  
  


**Kidnapped**

_ None of us are infallible. _

  
  


Since his wife’s death, it was well known amongst friends and colleagues that Jeff Tracy could be found at his desk at all hours of the day and night.  When he wasn’t at his desk, he was on a plane, jetting off to parts unknown--again, at all hours of the day and night. Now, going on five years since her tragic loss, Jeff had yet to find the courage to stop.

It was in times like these, when he’d been going full tilt for weeks straight, that the voice of one person became the most plaintive: His oldest son. When Scott spoke, the call was taken up by Jeff’s mother, and then Jeff’s mother contacted Ben Kyrano, telling him in no uncertain terms that he had full permission to use any means necessary to get Jeff to come home.

Thankfully, Ben had never had to result to the always-threatened ‘knock him out and carry him like a sack of potatoes’ method, or the ‘put a sleeping draught in his coffee’ route, or even ‘hide every electronic device and unplug the wi-fi.’  All Ben had to do was to look Jeff right in the eyes and say: “Jeff, your son wants you.” It didn’t even matter which son it was, but these five words were the code for “your children are going to forget what you look like if you don’t go home.”

So Jeff always went.  Reluctantly at first, throwing out last minute to-do items at his long-suffering secretary, but as Ben kept them moving toward the car park, Jeff would warm quickly to the idea of seeing his family. By the time they got to the car, Jeff would be almost giddy with excitement  as they headed toward the airport and Tracy-One.

Tonight was one of those nights, and as usual, Ben was heartened to see Jeff relax and set aside the daily grind of overseeing his multi-billion dollar enterprises.  There were three teenage boys, one pre-teen, and one young boy anxiously awaiting his arrival at the homestead in Kansas, and not only did Ruth need a bit of a break, she too wanted to see her son.  Ben set aside a pang of jealousy; while his own daughter’s boarding school wasn’t more than a couple of hours from their current location, unfortunately it was in the opposite direction of Kansas. If Ben had asked, Jeff wouldn’t have hesitated to make the detour, but Ben knew Jeff’s time was at a premium. He could always slip away to see Tanusha when they got back.

Smiling to himself, Ben watched stress and years fall away from Jeff on the journey down to where the company car waited to whisk them to the airport.  Stepping away from the doors, the two men moved toward the car, but the door to the stairwell flew open and a breathless man in a three-piece suit rushed toward them.

“Mr. Tracy!” the young man shouted, voice echoing in the cement structure. “Mr. Tracy, wait!”

Kyrano immediately stepped between the young man and his employer, but in a moment, Jeff laid his hand on Kyrano’s arm. “Hang on, Ben,” he murmured. “It’s Damson, isn’t it?” he asked of the red-faced middle-manager, who continued to huff even as he straightened his tie.

“Yessir,” Damson wheezed, his color beginning to return to normal. “I have an important message, but I wasn’t quick enough to catch your elevator.”

Jeff raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You could have left it with my secretary and saved yourself a headlong dash down the stairwell.”

“It’s all right, sir. I could use the exercise. “  He turned light blue eyes on Ben. “Actually, the message is for Mr. Kyrano.”

Ben frowned. “What’s the message?”

“It’s your daughter, sir,” the young man said solemnly.  “Her school called; she’s ill and is being taken to the hospital. They think she’s got pneumonia.”

Jeff’s breath caught in his chest. “Oh my God,” he breathed, as Ben went rigid beside him. “Of course you need to go right away, Ben.”

“I talked to her late last week,” Kyrano mused, brow furrowed. “She didn’t seem sick.”

“Apparently one of the other girls came down sick as well,” Damson explained. “It was very sudden, and they’re watching to see if anyone else gets sick. The lady I spoke with seemed very worried.”

Jeff nudged Ben toward the elevator. “Go on,” he urged. “I’ll call you when I get to the farm.”

Ben hesitated, torn between his love for his only child and his duty to his friend and employer. Something was strange about this situation, and he hadn’t gotten this far in his career by ignoring his instincts. Still, the urgency of Damson’s manner plucked at him, and he shot a glance at Jeff. “All right. I’ll update you when I get to the hospital.”

Jeff gave Ben a brotherly hug. “Give Tawny our best. Try not to worry, Dad.”

Kyrano smiled at the commiseration of another worried father. “Say hi to the boys for me.”

“Will do.” Jeff turned toward the car.

Kyrano turned to follow Damson, who was holding the elevator open.  However, as Kyrano stepped into the elevator, Damson let go of the ‘door open’ button and scurried out.

“What the--” Kyrano grabbed for the button but he was too late, and could only watch through the narrowing gap as Damson shot forward and shoved Jeff into the car. 

“Go!” Damson shouted, yanking the door shut as Jeff uttered a startled oath.

Kyrano threw himself against the doors. _ “No, Jeff!” _  He jabbed the button, but true to its safety features, the doors wouldn’t open once the car was in motion. Kyrano swore in both Malay and English, his heart sinking even as the elevator rose, carrying him away from the man he was supposed to protect.

*****

Jeff landed awkwardly, hissing as his arm and shoulder slammed into the door panel. “What the hell is this?” he demanded.

“Go!” Damson shouted, and Jeff had a split-second glimpse of Ben’s furious expression as the car door banged shut. Both men were shoved against the seat back as the car surged forward, tires screeching against the concrete as the driver fishtailed in the empty car park.  Jeff spared a glance for the figure with the cap pulled low over his face, and wondered what had happened to Max Laughlin, his usual driver. He sat up, holding his right arm against his chest, and sent up a wordless prayer that his chauffeur was only incapacitated and not dead.

“Relax, Mr. Tracy,” Damson began, settling his clothes and smoothing his tie. He keyed the control for the privacy panel, and smoked glass rose to wall them off from the driver’s compartment. “You won’t be harmed.”

“Says you,” Jeff shot back. “I think my wrist is broken.”

“My apologies. We’re in a bit of a hurry.” Damson pulled his phone from his pocket and keyed it to life, then pressed it to his ear. “We have him. No, no problems.” He eyed Jeff silently, listening to the voice on the other end. “Well, maybe one problem. No, nothing serious. Possible wrist fracture.”  Damson winced, holding the phone away from his ear a fraction as the speaker’s voice rose. “It was just a tense moment, I think I pushed him a little too hard. Other than that, he’s fine.”

Jeff rolled his eyes. “Mister, you and I have vastly different definitions of ‘fine.’”

Damson ignored him. “Uh huh. Okay. Yeah, we’re on our way. I’ll call in once we’re there.”  He clicked the phone off, then replaced it in his pocket and leaned back in the seat. “We’ll be on the road for a little while.” He pulled out a drawer from beneath the seat filled with all the accoutrements of a tiny portable bar. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“What you can offer me is an explanation of what’s going on,” Jeff retorted.  “Who are you working for, and what do they want?”

Damson grabbed a bottle of mineral water from the drawer and shut it. “You’ll find all that out in good time,” he replied, unscrewing the cap on the chilled bottle. “I advise you to get comfortable. We’ll get your wrist checked out as well. Oh, before I forget--your phone, please.”

There was nothing else for it but to do as Damson suggested, and the wrist was beginning to throb, so Jeff reached awkwardly into his left jacket pocket and retrieved the phone.  However, as he fumbled with it, he pushed the power button five times in quick succession before handing it over to Damson. “Thank you,” Damson remarked, then rolled the window down and dashed the phone against the highway, where it broke into a shower of metallic bits.

Jeff sighed, grateful that his innocuous button-pushing had instantly sent all of his contacts, photos, and notes winging back to his personal computer back at the office, as well as activated the instrument’s emergency-band GPS tracker. However, now that the signal had gone dark, Jeff knew that the device embedded into the back of his right hand would take up where it left off.  He just hoped that whoever was doing the intel for his captor hadn’t found that out; he didn’t relish the thought of learning to write with his left hand.

*****

Kyrano stabbed the button for the next available floor and was off the elevator as soon as the doors opened. He keyed 9-1-1 on his watch phone and hit the door to the stairwell running.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?” came the calm voice over the tiny speaker.

“My name is Benjit Kyrano,” Ben said as evenly as he could while jolting himself down a flight of stairs. “I work for Jefferson Tracy. I just witnessed him being kidnapped out of the garage of Tracy Industries.”

“How long ago did this occur, Mr. Kyrano?”

Ben flipped his watch over. “About four minutes ago.”  He heard a moan up ahead, and stopped short as he saw a man sitting slumped against the electrical closet of the second floor stairwell.  “Hang on, I’ve got an injured man here.” Ben moved forward slowly, then uncoiled as he saw Max Laughlin, Jeff’s driver, huddled on the floor with blood dripping down his face.  “It’s our driver, Max; he’s got a head injury.”

“Mr. Kyrano,” Max croaked, squinting against the light. “I dunno what happened. This young guy just came outta nowhere and bam, I was out.” He gripped Ben’s arm. “Is it true? Is Mr. Tracy--”

“I’m afraid so, Max.” He patted the driver on the arm. “It’s not your fault, these guys are bad news. We’ll get them.”

Max drew his knees up and laid his head back against the door, tears rolling down his face, and Ben knew they weren’t entirely from the pain throbbing through the man’s head. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

Ben sighed. “Me too. In the meantime, let’s wait here until the ambulance comes and we’ll get you checked out.”

“The EMTs are on their way, Mr. Kyrano,” came the voice of the dispatcher. “Do you have any idea where the assailants might be headed?”

“The airport,” Kyrano informed them. “That’s the only place I can think of. They may try to hijack Mr. Tracy’s private aircraft, Tracy-One. I have a tail number if you need it.”

“That would be helpful. I’m ready when you are.”

Ben gave them the number, thankful that this was the first time he’d had to give it to an emergency responder. “Their original destination was Tulsa International.”

“Thank you. We’ll hang up now. Is this a good number to contact you at?”

“Yes, it’s always with me. Thank you.”

The dispatcher clicked off the line, and Ben could hear sirens in the distance.  He glanced down at Max, who wore a look of utter devastation.

“Those poor boys,” Max said mournfully into the echoing space.

Kyrano had never been one to shrink from hard truths, ever since his wife had died at the hands of his half-brother and he’d almost lost Tanusha in the same breath. Still, this call would go down as one of the hardest he’d ever made in his life.  _ Better get it over with _ , he thought, then stepped away to pull out his phone proper and keyed Ruth’s personal phone rather than the house extension.

She picked up on the second ring, letting a sound of rowdy fun spill over the speaker. “Hi, Ben,” she greeted him, smiling up from the screen. “Are you two on the plane?”  Something on his face must have tipped her off, because she instantly moved into a different room, and the noise died away. “What’s happened?”

There was no other way to say it except to say it.  “He’s been kidnapped, Ruth.”

-TBC-


	8. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spirit is willing, but the flesh is rather sickly.

**_AN: Day 8 of Whumptober. Fluffy one this time!_ **

 

**Fever**

_ The spirit is willing, but the flesh is rather sickly. _

 

She didn’t get sick.

She  _ never _ got sick.

By virtue of living on an island in the Pacific and not mingling with crowds, she was able to keep herself fairly healthy, along with all the exercise she got, as well as the strict performance diet she and the others kept to.

Still, here she was, sneezing her head off and feeling like she just might die if she didn’t stop coughing.

Her comm chimed. “Hi beautiful,” said Virgil. “How’re you feeling?”

She sneezed.

“That good, huh?”

“Uuuugh,” she groaned, only partly for effect. “I don’t get sick. I’m not prepared to deal with this.”

“Poor baby. Well, you’re probably on the mend,” he soothed. “You’ve been at this, what, three days now?”

“Four,” she confirmed, recalling the day after the rescue in the frigid seas of the North Atlantic when she’d felt a tell-tale tickle in the back of her throat. She’d drank copious amounts of lemon water with honey, set her diffuser to going with the spicy ‘robber’s blend’ oil, slept with garlic in her socks (much to the chagrin of Alan, whose room was next door) and even dosed herself with zinc and vitamin C. Nothing stopped the onslaught of fever, chills, coughing, and epic sneezes, and eventually she’d had to throw her hands up in defeat and just retreat to bed.  Afterwards, she’d huddled miserably under the covers, emerging only to eat soup and swallow paracetamol at regular intervals.

“See? The average bout of influenza doesn’t usually last more than a week,” Virgil continued. “I bet you’re right as rain in just a few days.”

“Grandma and Brains are staying far away,” she wheezed, reaching for another tissue. “I feel like Typhoid Mary.”

“I don’t remember if we’ve ever had more than one of us out at a time,” Virgil mused. “Pretty good track record, if you ask me.”

She reached for a lozenge and popped it into her mouth. “Well, just be glad you’re not here,” she mumbled around the bit of hard, herb-flavored sugar. “How’s it going with you?”

“I think we’re about finished.” He tossed a glance over his shoulder at the smoldering countryside. “Fire’s about ninety-five percent contained, the local crews can take it from here.”  He smiled at her. “I miss you.”

She coughed. “I miss you too. John’s been keeping me company, and Penny called me this afternoon just to say hi.”

“Good. Didn’t want you withering from loneliness.”

“In this house? Not a chance.” She yawned.

“I’m gonna let you get back to sleep. We’ll be home in a few hours.”

“Okay,” she managed around a yawn, then spit her lozenge back into its wrapper and tossed it in the bedside trash can meant to catch the snowfall of Kleenex. “Sounds like a plan.”

He signed off, and she snuggled down into the covers with a sigh. Truth to tell, she  _ was _ lonely--she couldn’t recall the last time they’d hugged. Probably before the rescue in the North Atlantic, when this whole mucous-y saga had begun. John’s holographic presence had helped some, but his ghostly hands couldn’t hold hers.

Soon, she felt the bed beside her dip as another, heavier body settled itself against her back. A pair of strong arms threaded themselves around her, and before she knew what she was doing, she burrowed deep into their embrace.

“Hey angel.”  The deep voice at her ear was so welcome--and then her eyes flew open in alarm.

“What are you--” She stopped at the sight of Virgil in civvies, his nose and mouth covered by a mask. His warm amber eyes were full of love for her, and he winked.

“Love finds a way,” he reminded her. “Go back to sleep.”

And Kayo slept.

-End-


	9. Bruises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little whump, a little fluff, and a lot of family.

**_AN: Day 10 of Whumptober._ **

**WARNING: Mention of implied child abuse.**  

 

**Bruises**

_ Sometimes, keeping secrets is just as hard as reaching out for help. _

  
  


_ “Oof!” _

“What’s the matter, John?” Scott frowned, listening to his younger brother over the comm.

“Nothing, I just ran into a sharp corner. Not a lot of room to move up here, you know.”

Scott didn’t know, at least not very well; he’d only been up in ‘Five a handful of times, and that was fine for him. “Be careful up there,” he warned.

The laughter back down the line was dry and self-deprecating. “You know me. Dad always teased that he and Mom should have changed my birth certificate to read ‘Gangly’ instead of ‘Glenn.’”

Scott smiled, recalling all the years of their childhood when John was forever growing into his long limbs, tripping over his own feet, bringing knicknacks and filled glasses to ruin. “Yeah, I remember. Are you all set for your rotation to end?”

“Um, about that--”

“What?” Scott frowned. John was indeed most at home in zero-g, but he’d never balked at a chance to touch base with his family. “John, you can’t stay up there; it’s against regs. You’ve been at it for four weeks, time to pack it in for a little while. Alan’s never gonna learn if he’s never up there.”

A sigh. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll be down in a few hours, then.”

“Good. We’re looking forward to it. Grandma’s even made one of her famous apple pies for the occasion.”

“Ugh. I hope you mean MAX helped her out with it, or I’m staying put.”

Scott laughed. “Just get your gangly butt home, Spaceman.”

“FAB. Thunderbird Five out.”

 

*****

 

A few days after John arrived back home, Gordon managed to corner Scott, worry darkening his already tanned face. “Hey, I need to talk to you.”

Scott, who was half-buried under TB1’s console, held out his hand. “Give me that wrench, would you? The one on the seat?” When Gordon had laid the tool in his hand, Scott continued. “What’s on your mind, Gordy?”

Gordon leaned against the back wall of the cabin. “I think there’s something wrong with Johnny. Like  _ really _ wrong.”

“Oh? Such as?”

“Like...maybe he’s got leukemia or something.”

This made Scott stop wrenching and crab-walk his way out from under the console to sit up and gape at Gordon. “Why on earth would you think such a thing?”

Gordon sighed heavily. “I knocked on his door a bit ago to tell him lunch was ready. I think he’d just gotten a shower, because he still had a towel on and was getting dressed.”  He stepped forward, leaning on the back of Scott’s chair. “Scott, you should have seen the bruises, they’re all over him.”

Scott frowned, casting his memory back over the last few weeks. “You know how pale John is, all that white skin just exaggerates every little bump. When we were kids, someone actually suggested to the school that Mom and Dad were roughing him up.” He shook his head. “What a shitstorm that was. You were probably too young to remember that, but it took a full report from his pediatrician and a psych eval from Mom and Dad before it all cleared up.”

“I remember Dad talking about that once,” Gordon mused. “I don’t know, man. This looks a little odd.”  The amber gaze flicked to the floor, then back up at his eldest brother. “You don’t think he’s doing it to himself, do you?”

The thought of such a thing made Scott’s blood run cold, and his first instinct was to push it away. “No, no, I don’t think so,” he reassured Gordon. “John says there’s not a lot of room to move up there, so I’m sure he bangs into stuff all the time.”

Gordon shrugged. “I thought he knew that place like the back of his hand. This just seems...weird.”

Scott tapped the wrench on his jean-clad knee. “Hmm. Maybe I ought to talk with him, see how he’s feeling these days.”

“I’m not gonna tell you your job, but I think that’s a good idea.”

“You’re not telling me my job,” Scott reassured him. “You’re a member of this team, expressing concern for a teammate--who just happens to be your older brother.” He gave Gordon a disarming smile. “Thanks for telling me.”

 

*****

 

That night, Scott watched John closely as they moved through the evening’s activities. There was the inevitable knocking over of at least one water glass during dinner, which set everyone, including John, to laughing at the restrictions of gravity on a normally free-floating body. Then Alan tossed a pillow at John, yelping “Think fast, Johnny!” The cushion biffed John upside the head, which sent Alan into a gale of giggles and John into a good-natured grumble as he scooped up the cushion and tossed it back.

They were all saying their goodnights when Scott stopped John as he made to ascend the steps from the lounge. “Hey, Jaybird, I need to talk to you about something.”

John stopped in his tracks and turned to face his eldest brother. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“Gordon told me today that he saw you after you got out of the shower,” Scott began, folding his arms and crossing his long legs, resting one ankle on the opposite knee. “He said you had a ton of bruises. Are you feeling okay?”

John shrugged. “Yeah, just fine. I’m just my klutzy self, that’s all.”

Scott frowned. “John…” He sighed. “You know, I always thought that about you when we were kids, but when I saw you in zero-g for the first time...you were so graceful. I was envious.” He smiled at the memory. “It was like you’d found your element. All of a sudden, though, you’ve gotten klutzy even in zero-g.” He raised his head to search his younger brother’s face. “Something going on?”

There was a momentary flicker in John’s face, but it was well-hidden before Scott had a chance to speak. “Nothing that I know of.”

“Now, I'm your brother, but I’m also your _commander.”_   Scott’s frown deepened. “If something’s up, and you’re not fit--”

“Scott, _please,”_   John interrupted, his voice going suddenly strained. “Let’s not have this conversation now.  It’s late, I’m just lousy with gravity, and I’m not at my best. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

Scott thought a moment, then shook his head. “No, I’m worried about you. Gordon was pretty shaken by what he saw.”

John half-turned away and closed his eyes. “I know. I’ll be more careful.”

With a growing sense of dread, Scott stood and approached John slowly. “Jay...are you having trouble with your eyes?”

The redhead stiffened. “I--”

“Jay. Look at me.” Scott took his brother’s face in his hands. “Please tell me the truth.”

John sighed. “I can’t see, Scott.”

An icy bolt shot down Scott’s back. “What?”

“Let me rephrase that,” John said, holding up his hands. “I can see just fine straight ahead. To the sides, it’s...messed up.”

“Like you’re looking down a tunnel,” Scott suggested, another icy bolt going down his spine as John nodded. “Hence the knocking into things all the time.”

“Right.” John took a deep breath. “I’ve been doing some research, and I think what I have is ‘retinitis pigmentosa.’ It's hereditary; I think Mom's dad had it. It’s not painful, and it can be slowed, but there’s no cure.”

Scott folded John into his arms and held him there for a long moment. “Oh, Jay. How long has this been going on?”

“I dunno. Years. It wasn’t bad when we first started iR; I think I’d dealt with a form of it all my life.” John stepped back from Scott’s embrace but didn’t move away. “Hence my clumsiness with anything beyond arm’s reach from about--” he broke off and stretched out an arm. “About thirty-five, forty degrees.” He dropped his hand and looked away. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I  _ need  _ to do my job, Scotty--for you and for everyone we help--but mostly for me. I’ve learned to work around it, and EOS helps me out a lot.”

“Why all the bruises all of a sudden, though?” Scott asked.

John chuckled. “The supply run. We got called out right in the middle of restocking the station, remember? Everything’s everywhere. I keep meaning to put things away, but then we get another call.”

“I’ll get Alan to reroute the calls down here so he can put things away,” Scott suggested. “And then we’d better get you to an ophthalmologist, stat.”

John nodded, then looked back up at Scott, worry written on his face. “I’m...a little scared, Scotty. I’d be up a tree if I couldn’t work, but I might be able to manage. If I couldn’t see you, or the guys, or the island, or the stars...I don’t know what I’d do.”

Scott brought John in for another hug. “I know, Jay,” he agreed, his own voice going rough with emotion. “I’m scared too. But right now, you don’t have that problem, and we’re gonna do our best to make sure you don’t. If it ever happens, well, that might be a mercy, not having to look at our ugly mugs anymore.”

Despite the heaviness of the subject, John laughed. “Hm, there’s a silver lining to everything, I guess.”  He stepped away with a sigh. “Thanks, big brother. Will you...will you come with me to the ophthalmologist?”

“What are big brothers for?” Scott ruffled John’s copper hair, but got his hands slapped away for his pains. “First thing in the morning, we’ll go on over.”

 

*****

 

“Stylin’ shades, Jaybird,” Gordon crowed, as John entered the room wearing smoked lenses. “The doc says you have to wear them all the time?”

“Just during the day. Here’s my pair for the station.” He dug in the sleek eyewear bag and brought out a box, then opened it to reveal a visor-like headpiece. “Brains and I are going to tweak it to have a head’s-up display. We’re also building proximity sensors into my suit for stuff out of my vision field, so no more bruises. It’s gonna be pretty fancy once we get done.”

“Cool!” Alan gushed. “Can I see?” He grabbed the visor out of John’s hand and slipped it on. “Oooh, far out. Very punk rock.”  He handed it back for John to stow carefully back in the box. “Why do you need them up there, though? I thought the station blocked UV rays.”

“Not all of them,” John replied. “And especially when I have to go EVA. Ultraviolet rays hasten the onset of the damage.”

“And that’s something we all want to avoid,” put in Virgil, grabbing John around the neck for a hug. “I’m proud of you, Jay. That must have been really hard to talk about.”

“It was,” John agreed. He smiled, looking at his family around the table. “Not anymore.”

 

-End-


	10. Stranded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not so much physical whump for this chapter, but...maybe a little in a different way. I had a lot of fun writing this one.

**_AN: Day 9 of Whumptober._ **

  
  


**Stranded**

_ Expect the unexpected. _

 

We don’t get many visitors in these parts.  That’s why when I saw him, I was surprised, especially someone like him.

Tall. Dark-headed, and when he got close enough, dark-eyed. Leather jacket slung over his shoulder, sweat plastering the t-shirt to his muscular chest, blue jeans, heavy boots. He looked like someone from a motorcycle gang, but he didn’t have enough tattoos for that.

“Hey, Dad,” I threw back over my shoulder. “We’ve got someone coming.”

Dad wheezed in the affirmative.

I walked outside, shading my eyes against the merciless noonday sun. The stranger heaved into view, boots crunching against the gravel. “Hey there,” he said in a rich baritone. “You wouldn’t by any chance have a phone I could use, would you?” He squinted up into the sky. “No reception out here.”

_ Reception? _ I thought.  _ Was he going to a wedding? Dressed like  _ **that?**  Schooling my face into what I hoped was a polite smile, I nodded. “Sure thing. Probably a cold drink for you, too.”

“Much obliged.” He used the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face; his smile was absolutely dazzling even in the shadows. “My car broke down about two miles off down the road.”

“Sorry to hear that.” I led him inside the station, which was only a few degrees cooler than outside, but at least the sun wasn’t beating down on us anymore. I pointed to the phone booth. “There’s the phone.”

The stranger looked at the booth for a minute, a puzzled expression on his handsome face, then he turned back to me with a grin. “I get it. This is a joke, right?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Joke? You’re the one who wanted the phone.”

The smile fled from his face.  “Oh. Right.” He patted his pockets. “This is gonna sound really stupid, but--do you happen to have a nickel? I don’t tend to carry change.”

I rolled my eyes.  _ What kind of a square doesn’t have a nickel?  _ His clothes were too nice for him to be a hobo. “Here,” I said, pushing the ‘no sale’ key on the register and fishing a nickel from the drawer. “I expect it back, though.”

He took it into the booth, and after quite a lot of odd fumbling, he managed to work the thing. I busied myself with a few things, sweeping up the dust we’d tracked in, straightening the rug, tidying the cans of oil and the rack of pine-scented air fresheners while he talked. Then the nickel clattered into the belly of the phone and he hung up the receiver, managing to squeeze his wide shoulders out of the booth with only a little difficulty.  “Thanks,” he said again. “I called my roadside assistance company, they’ll be here in a bit.”

I reached into the red-and-white soda cooler and grabbed a frosty bottle, then popped the cap and handed it to him. “Here,” I said. “It’s on the house.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, you didn’t need to do that.” He smiled and took the bottle. “That’s nice of you, thanks.”  He tipped his head back and took a long pull of the sugary brown liquid, then set it down with a satisfied sigh. “Wow. I haven’t had a Coke in years. That was outstanding.”

I laughed. “What, they don’t have Coca-Cola where you live?”

He smirked. “Something like that. The folks in my family are a bunch of health nuts; they wouldn’t be caught dead drinking soda pop.”  He reached out a hand. “I’m Virgil.”

I took his hand, noticing calluses in the strong, dry grip. “Nice to meet you, Virgil. I’m Trixie.” I let his hand go and threw a glance back over my shoulder to where Dad sat in the shadows. “That’s my Dad. He’s...not well, so he stays pretty quiet.”

Virgil tilted his head to see past me, and acknowledged Dad with a nod. “How d’you do, sir? Many thanks for the hospitality.”

To my surprise, Dad raised a hand and managed a wan smile.

I gave Dad a grin, then turned back to Virgil, who was studying the items on the shelves behind me. “See something you might need?”

He moved closer, then reached across the counter. “May I?”  At my nod, he plucked one of the shiny Quaker State cans from the shelf and held it for a moment, an odd smile on his face. “Is this real oil?”

I burst out laughing. “That’s what it says on the can, so I sure hope so!”

He laughed and replaced the can on the shelf. “I just...I haven’t seen one of those since I was a kid, on my grandpa’s farm in Kansas, and that can was definitely not as pretty as that one. It was full of screws and bolts, sitting on his workbench.”

I crossed my arms and leaned back against the soda cooler. “Those hands tell me that you’re a working man,” I said, with a nod to the fingers around the half-full Coke bottle. “I find it hard to believe that you haven’t seen a can of Quaker State since you were a kid.”

Something odd crossed his face at that moment, and he looked down at the drink. “I’m not much of a grease monkey,” he said slowly. “I deal with...other parts of an engine.”

“I see. You’re a strange one, Virgil.”

He smiled. “I suppose I might seem strange, yeah.”

“You don’t know how to work a pay phone,” I continued. “You haven’t had a Coke in years, and you looked at a can of oil like it was some sort of relic.”  I narrowed my eyes at him. “You haven’t been in prison, have you?”

Virgil’s deep brown eyes snapped wide. “No! No, nothing like that.” He cast a glance behind me at Dad, but the old man was asleep in his easy chair. “No, I’m just from a pretty far distance away.”

“Like a desert island, it sounds like.”

He barked out a laugh. “Tropical island, actually.”  He shot another glance at Dad, then back at me. “You wanna go for a walk?”

I felt my cheeks warm, even in the stuffy room. “Been a while since a handsome man asked me out.” I looked back at Dad, then went over and patted his shoulder. He stirred with a snort and blinked rheumy eyes at me. “I’ll just be outside for a minute, Dad. Be right back.”

Dad patted my hand, giving me a knowing smile and a wink.

*****

I grabbed a Coke before going outside, and Virgil and I strolled along the dusty road under the hot sun.  He’d left his jacket behind in the station, and I admired his defined shoulders and bulky arms. “What do you do, that has you looking like Mr. America?” I teased.

Virgil chuckled. “I don’t know about that,” he said politely, “but my job does involve a lot of heavy lifting. It’s much easier to do it if you have a little meat on you.”  He raised his eyes to the sky. “My brother John, though, he’s like a whippet, tall and lean. My brother Gordon, he’s short, but he’s a swimmer, so he’s got better definition than I do. Scott’s taller than all of us, and he’s broad through the shoulders. Alan’s our skinny kid brother.”

I took a drink from my Coke. “Five brothers, wow. I’m sure your parents must be busy folks.”

Virgil drank as well, finishing his off, but slipped the bottle into his pocket rather than dropping it in the sand. “Mom passed away when we were kids, but yeah, Dad had his hands full with us. His mom helped out a lot, too.”

“I’m sorry about your Mom.”  I sighed. “My mom died when I was born.”

Virgil’s brow furrowed, but he only said, “I’m sorry.”

I gave him a smile. “It’s okay. Dad and I made a good team, until he got sick. Do you have any sisters?”

“No. Well, one unofficial sister. Her dad and my dad were really close, so she’s just like one of the family.”

“Sounds like a nice family.” I turned and looked back at the station with its lone gas pump and cheerful tin signs hung on the walls.  “I shouldn’t stay away too long.”

Virgil found a lump of petrified wood under a shady tree that acted as the boundary of our property and sat down. “You can stay just a little while longer, can’t you?”  He patted the wood next to him. “How long have you been out here, just you and your dad?”

I slid onto the wood, grateful for the shade, and polished off my own Coke. “Five years. I graduated school and was gonna go on to college, but then Dad got sick and he couldn’t run the station anymore.” I shrugged. “I was only gonna help him out for a while until he either sold the station or hired someone else, but he kept insisting that he was gonna get better.” I stirred the sand with the toes of my Keds. “He didn’t, so here we are.”

Virgil cast his gaze down the shimmering road. “Time flies,” he mused. “You know, I could probably put you in contact with someone who could help you.” He turned toward me, straddling the makeshift bench. “Maybe your dad could see a doctor, or live somewhere that he could be cared for while you go back to school.”

I blushed. “I’d like that, but we don’t have that kind of money.”

Now it was his turn to blush, just a little. _ “I  _ do.”

I couldn’t help the laugh that spluttered out of me. “You, who doesn’t have a nickel for a phone call?”  I patted his hand where it rested on the wood. “I’m sorry, Virgil, I didn’t mean that.” I looked up into his face, which wore a look of concern, instead of the hurt and annoyance I might have expected. “You’d really do that for us? Two strangers you just met on some dusty road in the middle of nowhere?”

Virgil slowly picked up my hand and held it gently. “My dad has always told us that our job is to help people, no matter where we find them.”  He smiled. “Maybe that’s the reason my car picked this place to break down, so I would come across you.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “You believe in fate?”

He scooted closer and touched my chin, tilting my face up toward his. “If I didn’t before, I’m becoming a convert,” he breathed.

Despite the heat, I felt a shiver go down my spine. He was so close, and despite the sweat, he smelled good, like a forest. His eyes were a deep, clear brown, and now I could see that he had a small cleft in his chin that made me think of Cary Grant.

His next words were so quiet that the breeze almost took them away. “Can I kiss you, Trixie?”

My voice was too far down in my throat, so I just nodded, and closed my eyes.

His mouth was warm and sweet, moving slowly against mine, and I would have fallen off the log if his arm hadn’t been around my shoulders. I had no idea who he was, and everything in me screamed that it was only  _ a certain kind of girl _ who allowed a strange man to kiss her, but oh, he felt so  _ good. _

“Let me guess,” he murmured against my hair. “It’s been a while since anyone’s kissed you.”

“Not since Teddy Gregson in the tenth grade,” I said with a chuckle. “Though I’d say you’ve been worth the wait.”

We laughed, foreheads together, then he sat back and smoothed the stray hairs back from my ponytail.  “I mean it, though. I’d really like to help you.”

I reached up and laid a hand on his cheek. “You already have, Virgil.”

*****

The sun was nearing the horizon just as a tow truck rumbled up the road, kicking up a mountain of dust from under the flatbed.  A brilliant green car rode atop the flatbed, looking like a queen gazing down at her lowly subjects. My jaw fell open. “Wow!  _ That’s _ your car?”

Virgil patted one of the tires. “Yep, she’s my fussy baby. I took her out here hoping to open her up and just do some driving, but she had other plans.”  He shook his head. “It’s my fault; I don’t run her nearly enough, and she gets all huffy with me.”

I giggled at the thought of this queenly car being angry with him for sitting idle for too long. “Her Royal Majesty sounds like she’s rather spoiled.”

“Oh, she is, no doubt of that.”  Virgil followed me inside and collected his jacket, then took out a sleek metal case from one of the pockets. He opened it and removed a deep grey business card printed with TRACY INDUSTRIES, and his name and telephone number in one corner. I frowned at the words and symbols below the number. “What’s that?”

“My email address.”  My confusion must have shown on my face, because he took up the ball point pen on a chain and crossed it out. “Never mind, don’t worry about that.  Just call that number and talk with my secretary. Tell her I said she needs to look into this for you. Use those exact words; she’ll know it’s from me.”

I nodded, and pushed the ‘no sale’ key in order to stow the card for safekeeping. “Thank you so much, Virgil.”  I reached up and kissed his cheek. “I’m gonna miss you. If you’re ever out this way again, be sure to stop by.”

He smiled and squeezed my hand. “I will.” He glanced behind me at Dad, who was asleep again. “Tell him goodbye for me.”

“I will.” I followed him back out to the car and watched as he swung up into the passenger seat of the tow truck. “Goodbye!”

He waved, and then they were gone.

*****

_ -Two Years Later- _

“Dude, are you sure this is a good idea?” Gordon frowned as the countryside zipped by. “I mean, tempting fate isn’t very smart, yanno.”

Virgil smiled and shifted, guiding the Lamborghini Aventador around a long curve. “She’s running like a champ today,” he corrected his younger brother. “Besides, I wanna see how Trixie and her dad are getting on. They might not even be there anymore, if things went how I hoped they would.”

Gordon gave Virgil a sly grin. “Ohhh, so this is about a  _ girl.” _  He sat back with his arms behind his head. “Shoulda known, you dog.”

“Give it a rest.” The curve smoothed out into a long stretch of highway, and a low building with a lone gas pump shimmered into view. “Hey, there it is.” Virgil guided the Lamborghini up to the building, then shut it off and got out. Gordon popped the gullwing passenger door and got out as well, scuffing in the sandy soil.

“Looks like you were right,” he mused. “This place is deserted.”

Virgil frowned at the boarded-up door and the rusting pump. “Huh. I guess Trixie and her dad got out after all.”

Gordon gave a yelp as he tripped over something, then stooped to dig it out of the sand. “Hey, lookit this! Didn’t Grandpa Grant have one of these?” He gave the rusty object to Virgil, who turned it over to reveal a faded logo.

“Quaker State,” Virgil read, then raised his head to squint at the building. “Yeah, he did,” he said absently, moving toward the dirty window.  He cleaned off a patch and peered inside, seeing a dusty red-and-white Coke machine and a ratty easy chair amongst the jumble of furniture and fallen roof beams.

“You’re acting weird--well, weirder than usual,” Gordon quipped. “You okay?”

Virgil blinked, then glanced down at the can. “Yeah. Just--” He swung around to take in the entire view, then looked back down at the can. “Hang on a minute.”  He trotted over to the log in the shade of the tree, and set the can down beside the log. He stayed for just a moment more, smoothing the petrified wood with his fingertips, then turned and jogged back to where Gordon waited.

They drove in silence for several minutes until Gordon stirred. “What was that all about?” he ventured quietly.

“Nothing.” Virgil glanced in the rear view mirror, seeing only the shimmering road. “Just saying hi to an old friend.”

\--End--


	11. Manhandled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of John post-breakup continues! WARNING for some pretty hot stuff.
> 
> Also: For appropriate music, crank Flight Facilities - Crave You (Adventure Club Dubstep Remix).

**_AN: In reality, this is Day 15 of Whumptober, but I skipped a few, so this will be out of order._ **

 

**WARNING: Hooking up, explicit m/m sex**

 

**Manhandling**

_ Trying to forget can drive us to seek solace in strange places. _

 

John usually left it to his brothers to be the social butterflies of the family.  Due to an ill-fated relationship with an heiress to an oil fortune and then an immediate rebound to the daughter of a shipping magnate, the press had slapped Scott with the title of ‘playboy,’ but the rest of them had (so far) managed to escape being labeled with the hated designation.  As he alighted from the taxi and placed himself at the end of the queue attempting to enter the club, John wondered if if that was about to change.

Before he’d left his hotel room, he’d donned a pair of tinted contacts to disguise his turquoise eyes and a snap-brim cap to hide his bright copper hair. His clothes were stylish without being flashy, and he would be one of many young men of fashion hoping to score a date, or at least a dance.

The club he’d chosen welcomed patrons of every gender and identification, so at least his father wouldn’t have to read that one of his sons had been spotted patronizing a gay bar. Not that Jeff actually minded, but some of his shareholders and contemporaries might, so John decided to keep things as quiet as he could. Besides, it was no one’s business but his own who he decided to dance with, or even who he decided to take back to his hotel, if anyone.

So it was that when John stepped into the club--through the regular door like all the other patrons, choosing not to exercise his VIP status--that the flickering lights did much to hide him in a sea of writhing bodies.  The tattooed vixen behind the bar checked his ID and leaned over to shout, “What’ll ya have?”

“Something that’ll make me drunk and pretty,” he shot back, and she laughed, twirling a finger in the air to say  _ Coming right up.   _ In no time at all, she plunked a martini glass in front of him, and he eyed the lurid blue concoction dubiously. Not only was the glass larger than he had expected, edible glitter swirled through the bright liquid. Even the cherry had been dyed blue.

The bartender gestured to it with a wicked little smirk.  _ You asked for it. _

He sighed and cracked a smile.  _ That I did. _ He reached for his wallet in his jacket pocket and laid a C-note in her hand, then waved her off when she would have made change. She gave him a nod of thanks, and he picked up his questionable libation to as he turned to survey the dance floor.  He scanned the club, taking a mouthful of the syrupy drink and letting the flavors of citrus and rum roll over his tongue. Everyone was grinding and pulsing to the music, and some definitely looked like they needed a room instead of a dance floor.

He smiled inwardly. So far the operation was a success. Tonight, on his first night out since Tyler had broken up with him two months ago, his plans were fairly straightforward: One, to get so drunk that he couldn’t remember his own name, and Two, to find someone who would screw his brains out, in no particular order.

He took another mouthful, then nibbled on the cherry. There were several candidates in the running for Mr. Right Now: A cute blond with moves like Fosse; a slender dark-haired man with amethyst eyes, swaying at the edge of the crowd; and a tall, muscular man with an ebony undercut that bloomed into a bleached froth falling over his forehead.  The blond reminded him too much of Alan, now that he thought about it, and at a second look, Violet Eyes was actually here with someone who had just been fetching drinks. However, the dark-haired Adonis still held his attention, and with a start, John realized that the man was looking back at him. He polished off his drink with a surprised gulp and coughed a few times, then set the glass back on the bar, wiped his eyes, and waved a ‘no’ at the bartender when she mouthed  _ Another? _

At the moment, Goldilocks was dancing with an equally muscle-bound man dressed in all black, displaying a good sense of rhythm and a great deal of sexy body English. However, every time his head came up, grey eyes met John’s, and so it was not much of a surprise that when the song ended and his partner gave him a friendly wave of thanks before moving off the floor, Goldilocks made his way over to where John stood. The music turned smoky and the lights dimmed accordingly as couples formed and clung to each other.  John forced himself to stand his ground when the man broke through the barrier of his personal space, hoping that his smile looked friendly rather than nervous and sickly.

“Hey,” Goldilocks ventured out of a generous mouth. “What’s up, Newsie?”

John blinked at him a moment. “‘Newsie?’”

Goldilocks flicked the black leather snap-brim. “The hat, love. You look like a paperboy.”

“Oh, right.” John cleared his throat and slipped his hands in the pockets of his pristine dark blue jeans, pushing his navy jacket back off his hips to reveal his light blue shirt printed with coral cabbage roses. “Just hanging out. You?”

“Just celebrating another day of life,” the other man quipped, waving to get the bartender’s attention.  When he’d put in his order for a vodka and soda, he turned back to John. “Haven’t seen you here before, love. You new in town?”

The familiar form of address was pinging at John uncomfortably, but he pushed it aside and focused on the man’s outfit of crisp white shirt, slim-fitting black chinos, and polished black brogues. “I’m in Boston,” he replied, which was technically true for a few more weeks. “Kansas transplant. You?”

“California native, but I’ve been here a few years.” Goldilocks received his drink, pulled out a platinum card and handed it to the bartender. “Working with a startup company a friend of mine cooked up. Company’s doing great since he bailed about a year ago and left me with the keys.” A shrug. “Such is the life of a guy in business for himself.”

John grinned. “Those sixty hour work weeks, so glamorous.”

“Absolutely.” Goldilocks stuck out his hand. “Stone Martin,” he said by way of introduction. “Not a stripper.”

“John Glenn.” John shook the proffered hand, noting its strong, yet uncalloused dry grip. “Not an astronaut, just named for one.” Again, it was mostly the truth.

“Nice to meet you.” The bartender returned with the card, and Stone signed the slip before turning back to John. “What’s your major?”

“Physics. Minor in business.”

“Economics for me.” Stone plucked the lime from the rim of the glass, tossed it into the icy carbonated mixture, and took a long drink. “How long you in town for?”

John was beginning to feel a tad swimmy from his glittery cocktail; either that or it was the heat of two hundred bodies pressed against each other. “Just for the weekend.”

At John’s admission, Stone paused in the motion of tipping back his drink. After taking another thoughtful swallow, Stone lowered the glass to swirl the contents. “You, ah, looking for something in particular?”

His heart rate began to tick upwards, but John kept his body loose and his voice unconcerned. “Maybe. What do you have in mind?”

The slow song ended, and the music once again kicked into high gear. Instead of answering, Stone tossed back the remainder of his drink, set the glass back on the bar, and leaned to speak in John’s ear. “Wanna dance?”

It might have been the affront to the distillery arts that was running through his veins, but right at that moment, John wanted nothing else in the world.  He let Stone tug him to the floor, and they began to move.

As the musician in the family, Virgil was the one with the best rhythm, but Gordon was the darling of the dance floor, and it was he who had taught John a few solid moves. So it was that when they stepped onto the slick tiles, John wasn’t entirely at sea, and soon he found himself caught up in a beat that he could feel in his sternum. Stone’s hands wrapped around his waist from behind, and together they swayed and dipped as colorful light splashed against their bodies. John could feel Stone’s hips grind into his, and he pressed his spine against Stone’s flat belly, arms raising above his head as Stone’s hands slid down to rest on John’s narrow waist. The air was hot and thick, perfumed with sweat and liquor fumes and a dizzying cloud of expensive colognes. John caught the fleeting, earthy smell of hashish, as well as the scent of newly cut roses from a bloom tucked behind a woman’s ear.

Stone’s hands were under the jacket, palms skimming the flowered shirt, and John bucked against him to show his approval. Stone grabbed him in reply, pinning John’s slighter frame to his bulky one as they continued to move with the thunderous music. John let his head fall back against Stone’s shoulder and closed his eyes, letting his mind go blank and his body take the lead.

The music went on and on, carrying them on a wave of motion and sound, and John didn’t realize the song had changed until Stone stopped moving. “Wanna get outta here?” Stone gritted in his ear before brushing his lips against John’s neck.

The touch was electrifying, and just like the dancing, John couldn’t think of anything he wanted more. He nodded, grabbing Stone’s hand as the man led the way through the crowd.

It seemed to take an age to reach the door, and they stumbled into the cool air, blinking and gasping. With a quick look around, Stone pulled John into an alleyway and pressed him against the concrete wall, kissing him hard enough to bruise.  John pulled at Stone’s shirt, begging without words for them to be closer.

“Damn, Johnny,” Stone growled, pulling John’s jacket and shirt away so his teeth could nip and catch at the joining of John’s neck and shoulder. “I’d say you’re dying for me to fuck you.”  He kissed John again, gripping hard at John’s biceps. “I know _ I _ am.”

“Oh God,  _ yes,” _ John panted. “Don’t wanna get too carried away, though,” he murmured, digging in his pocket for a shiny foil packet. He held it up between his fingers so it flashed in the light. “If not, thanks for a hell of a dance.”

A laugh spluttered from Stone. “I may be horny as hell, but I’m not stupid.” He grabbed the packet, and John stood guard as they both shook with silent laughter fueled by alcohol. Stone unhooked his belt and unzipped, his back to the mouth of the alleyway. “No one’s coming, right?”

“No.” John unzipped his jeans and stuck a hand down his pants to play his fingers down his own cock. “Although _ I _ might if you don’t hurry up.”

“Don’t you dare,” Stone shot back. “Turn around.”

John did as he was told, hands braced against the wall as Stone snaked an arm around his waist and pressed into him, teasing at first, then slipping in. John uttered a startled cry, then bit his arm to stifle the sound from bouncing against the concrete. Stone unleashed a long, low groan into the fabric of John’s jacket, moving slowly until he was buried deep. John gasped, cheek pressed against the rough concrete as Stone thrust into him again and again.

“Ahh, I’m gonna--” Stone hissed, then let out a bellow as he did just as he’d warned. They stood locked together for the space of a dozen heartbeats, breathing as if they’d run a marathon, until Stone dropped to his knees. “C’mere, Spaceman,” he growled, and proceeded to drain John dry.

After the stars had cleared from his vision, John stood hunched over Stone, shaking from head to foot. Stone’s feathery white forelock was buried in John’s pale belly, his arms wrapped around John’s quivering thighs. “S-stone, you okay?”

“Yeah.” Stone slowly got to his feet, dusting off the knees of his pants, then buttoned up. “That was incredible.”

John licked his lips,  wondering what it would have been like if the roles had been reversed.  He badly wanted Stone’s cock in his mouth, and that desire pulled an invitation out of him so quickly, he almost surprised himself. “It doesn’t have to end there,” he murmured, his hand on Stone’s arm. “Wanna come back to my place?”

Stone regarded him with serious eyes for a moment. “You’re straight up _ starving,” _ he said softly. “Are you sure you want this? You could just go out and find that right person, not waste any more time on guys like me.”

John gave him a sad smile. “Please, Stone. I really want to be with you tonight.”

The snowy forelock did little to hide the worry and pity in Stone’s eyes, but he let John lead him back to the hotel and up to the sumptuous room. It wasn’t the penthouse, but it was close, and Stone couldn’t help but gape at the luxurious surroundings.

In the taxi to the hotel, John had felt the last of the alcohol wear off, leaving him with a headache, but he still kept his hand in Stone’s. They kissed slowly as the miles ticked by on the meter, kindling their desire until it was like coals burning beneath John’s skin. Now that they were here, John led Stone into the plush bedroom, ignoring the way the other man’s head kept turning this way and that to take in the sights. For a moment, John let him look his fill, then touched Stone’s cheek and brought his attention back down to earth.

“Thanks for being here,” he murmured, running a thumb over Stone’s lower lip. “If I forget to tell you later, I had the best time.”

“Same here,” Stone breathed, then closed his eyes as his lips met John’s with ardor only a fraction cooler than outside the club.

They took their time, lingering over each other’s bodies, teasing and tasting without any need to hurry or hide. John lovingly sucked Stone into a state of quivering ecstasy, relishing his partner’s sighs and gasps before coming up to make Stone taste himself in a messy kiss.

As morning spilled through the cracks in the silken curtains, they slept. Finally spent, sore, and thoroughly sated, they lay tangled in each other’s arms as the sun climbed into the sky.

When John woke, he was alone. They hadn’t talked about this part, just pushed it out of their minds until it happened, and now it was here. John rolled over with a groan; he’d pretty much known that his partner of the night before wouldn’t be there, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

Then John spotted the envelope of hotel stationery sitting on the night table. There was a name scrawled on it in a bold hand:  _ John. _

The intended recipient took it carefully from its perch among the condom wrappers, then slowly withdrew the single sheet from the envelope.  He blinked a few times to dispel the sleep from his eyes, then read:

_ Dearest Johnny boy, _

_ I’m sorry I can’t be there when you wake up; goodbyes aren’t my style. I want you to know I had a great time, too. If you’re ever back in town, look me up. I won’t forget you. _

_ Yours, _

_ Stone _

There was a phone number below the name, and an email address. John picked up his phone and considered entering the info into his contacts, then lowered both paper and phone. No, he thought. It had indeed been fun, but it was too soon.  He’d keep Stone’s note, and read it from time to time, let it remind him of the headiness of the night before, but he decided not to call him--not for a while yet.

John got up from the bed and stretched, then went into the sleekly furnished bathroom to complete his morning duties. As he passed the mirror, he couldn’t help but stop and gape at the myriad of bruises, scrapes, and abrasions that covered his pale skin, silent testimony to his efforts at putting the past behind him.

-End-


	12. Electrocution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott keeps a tense watch over Virgil.

**_AN: Technically, this is day 12 in Whumptober. Man, I had a heck of a time with this one, but when I finally found it, it just clicked._ **

  
  


**Electrocution**

_ iR is all about safety first...but sometimes the unthinkable happens. _

 

Scott sat in the infirmary watching his brother’s chest rise and fall, counting the times that it did so.

Up. Down. Up. Down. One, two, three, four.

He had to keep watching. He had to keep counting.

Up. Down. Up. Down. One, two, three, four.

He had to, otherwise he’d see again how the sparks flew from the damaged wire, how the wind shook the wires and the trees and the terrified youngsters clinging to the trunk as the rain lashed them.

Up. Down. Up. Down. One, two, three, four.

He’d see Virgil reaching for the kids, one eye on the wire, one eye on the kids as he edged closer and closer to them. He’d feel the wind whipping the rain against his face as he squinted up at the tense tableau. If he didn’t keep counting, he’d see the moment that metal and rubber lost its battle with serrated tree bark, and swung gently to land on Virgil’s right shoulder, too fast for Scott to warn him.

Up. Down. Up. Down. One, two, three, four.

Most horrible of all, if he stopped counting, Scott would see again how Virgil tumbled boneless from his perch, as if he were a doll that a child had tired of playing with and cast to the ground. He’d hear the children’s screams and Gordon’s yell and John barking in his ear.

_ Scott _

_ Scott  _

_ I’ve lost Virgil  _

_ He’s going into fibrillation  _

_ Scott help him _

Up. Down. Up. Down. One, two, three, four.

He’d recalled his training and didn’t give into the instinct to grab up his little brother and snatch him away from whatever had been hurting him. He’d made sure that the wire was far away from Virgil, and then begun to do the compressions he’d done so many times on so many people, except now, it was his brother under his clasped hands.

_ One one thousand, two two thousand, three three thousand, four four thousand _

_ Stop. Listen. Ignore the wind, the rain, the screams _

_ Nothing. _

_ Fasten his mouth over Virgil’s ice cold lips and breathe, breathe _

_ Clasp his hands over his little brother’s generous, loving heart and _

_ One one thousand, two two thousand, three three thousand, four four thousand _

_ Come on Virgil, come on _

_ Was that the wind? Was it an exhale? _

_ Warm breath against his cheek.  _ Yes, _ damnit.  _ Breathe, _ damnit. _

His little brother’s groan had been the sweetest sound Scott had ever heard.

After that, everything was a total blank. One second, he was there breathing for Virgil, crushing the life back into him, and the next he found himself here, watching Virgil breathe.

Oh, God. He’d stopped counting. He had to count, where had he left off? He couldn’t remember.

“S...Sct. Scott.”

His head came up, eyes searching his brother’s bulky frame before coming to rest on the well-loved face.  That face was bruised and abraded from landing on the asphalt, but it was regaining its normal color. Scott didn’t think he’d un-see the pallor of death on that face for a long, long time.

“Hey,” Scott replied, bypassing Virgil’s bandaged fingertips to lay his hand gently on his arm. “How are you feeling?”

Virgil dragged his tongue against his lips, and Scott reached for a cup and a straw. After taking a few swallows, Virgil laid his head back against the pillow and fixed his eldest brother with a wan smile.  “I’m here,” he said. “I think that’s enough for now.”

“It is,” Scott assured him. “More than enough.”

 

-End-

 


	13. Hostage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying to finish up the Whumptober challenge!

**_AN: Yeah, I know, Whumptober is technically over, but I didn’t finish out this series. Hopefully I can rectify that._ **

 

**Whumptober: Hostage**

_ Don’t try to beat the best at their own game; it never ends well. _

 

The small chamber was quiet, except for the drip of water and the ragged breathing of the man tied to the rickety chair. At first glance, the man appeared to be unconscious, but as a distant door opened and clanged shut again, the man’s breathing quickened, denoting that he was far from being unaware of his surroundings.

Two sets of heavy footsteps approached. Imperceptibly, the man tied to the chair relaxed, letting his body loosen against the bonds that held him fast. If the light had permitted them to see, the two would have noticed that the lids of the one eye not swollen shut were parting just slightly to scan the area.

Abruptly, the overhead light flooded the dank space with brilliance, but the man didn’t react. “Oi, wake up, shithead,” one of them bellowed, smacking the man across the face with a meaty palm. “We’re moving out.”

The other let loose a malodorous guffaw. “Yeah, if you thought this place was bad, wait till you see where we’re taking you.”

The first tough swatted his compatriot on the back of the head. “Shuddup! Let him loose but don’t untie his hands, if you know what’s good for you.”

The second grabbed a fistful of the man’s salt-and-pepper hair, exposing the bruised face under the sweaty strands. The good eye narrowed, its iris a slash of icy blue. “You want I should leave his gag on?”

“Yeh, he’s got a mouth on him,” said the first, with a mirthless smile. “I got tired of listening to him yap so I shut him up.” As soon as the bonds were loosed, the first tough yanked the man up out of the seat by the front of his once-white teeshirt, the rough hands the only thing keeping the man from landing on knees bloodied from an earlier fall that ripped his jeans to shreds. His bare feet skidded against the slimy concrete as he was tugged along, but he made no move to resist.

There was time enough for that later.

******

Penelope’s voice snapped in Kayo’s ear. “Have you still got a lock on him?”

The pilot of Thunderbird Shadow flicked her gaze to the HUD where “PARKER, A” was noted in red on a map of the ancient London Underground. “Affirmative. I’m reading two other lifesigns with him; probably the guys who grabbed him from the pub.”

“His first night off in I don’t know how long, and someone slips a mickey in his pint,” Penny gritted. “I swear, people can just piss right off.”

Kayo sighed inwardly at the unladylike invective in the blonde agent’s voice, hearing an echo of her own vitriol when she’d had to come to the rescue of her brothers once or twice. Still, it wouldn’t do to lose focus, not if they wanted to get Parker back, preferably alive. “Thank goodness his tracker’s functioning,” she replied, attempting to bring Penny back to the subject.

She was relieved when Penny sighed over the comm. “Right. Sorry. I’m ready back here whenever you are.”

“Hang on, this is gonna get bumpy,” Kayo warned. “Disengaging cycle pod in three, two, one--disengage!”

Kayo was impressed; Penny’s only reaction to being physically dropped out of the bottom of Thunderbird Shadow (albeit securely locked into the pillion of Kayo’s enclosed Shadowcycle) was a small gasp, quickly stifled. With a flick of her fingers, Kayo sent TBS whisking away to cling to the cliff wall of a secluded beach in Sussex; then the cycle’s tyres kissed the asphalt and they were off.

*****

The comm was chiming, and Ruth Tracy, sans glasses, squinted up myopically at her unofficial grandson. “This thing is gonna work, right?” she asked, nervously adjusting the blonde wig. “I sure don’t look anything like Lady Penelope.”

Brains gave her a warm smile. “You’re doing fine,” he assured her. “Just f-follow the script Lady P gave us, and m-my emulator will take care of the rest.” His eyes flicked toward the scrolling screen with its lines of code. “Okay. Answer the c-comm.”

Ruth cleared her throat as the lights dimmed in the lounge, obscuring her face half in shadow as she sat at her son’s desk. “This is Lady Penelope,” she said. “Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

A man appeared on the screen, two beady eyes glittering obscenely above a black mask. “We have the man called ‘Parker,’” he spat. The voice was distorted, but that was to be expected. “We know you’ll pay dearly for his return.”

Ruth drew a steadying breath; they’d bought Brains’ little charade. “What are your demands?”

“Five million pounds,” the distorted voice rasped. “Via electronic transfer.”

Ruth’s gaze went to Scott, who was standing directly behind Brains, every line of his form radiating tension. He gave her a nod, and she continued. “Very well. You must understand that will take some time--to free up assets, you know. I need twenty-four hours.”

“You have three.”

Scott made a rolling motion with his hands:  _ Keep talking. _

“Again, the family doesn’t have heaps of cash just lying about,” Ruth hedged. “No questions will be asked.” She put a small quaver in her voice. “Please, be reasonable. He’s part of our family. He practically raised me.”

“You’re breaking my heart, your Ladyship,” the voice snarled. “Three hours, no more. We’ll be in touch.”  The comm went dark.

As his grandmother and engineer sagged back in their chairs, Scott leaned over and tapped the comm. “This is Tracy Island to Thunderbird Shadow.”

“Shadow here.”

“Kayo, where are you and Lady P?”

Kayo checked her HUD. “We’re near the exit for the Underground,” she informed Scott. “John picked up the heat signature from the car they used.” She felt one corner of her mouth curl into a predatory smile. “That’s what you get for parking near a disused Underground station; no other cars nearby. Makes one very easy to pick out.”

Scott nodded to himself. “Stay alert, you two. Virgil and Gordon are just outside London and ready to assist with extraction. Give a shout if you need them sooner for backup.”

“F A B, Scott,” Penelope bit off. “However if anyone has a problem, it will be  _ them  _ having one with  _ us. _ ”

Alan, who had acted as grip during their little on-screen charade, shivered from his place at Brains’ left hand. “Anyone else as glad as I am that Kayo and Lady P are on  _ our  _ side?” he asked.

*****

One minute, the two men were moving toward the exit to the Underground in preparation to move the third to a more secure location, and the next, all hell broke loose. Out of nowhere a low-slung, two-wheeled craft darted toward them, silent except for the squeal of tyres against the pavement. The cycle spun past them, skidding to a stop, and the second tough shoved the prisoner into the car--or he would have done so, had the prisoner not suddenly gained the ability to kick out like an angry mule.  The second tough let out a ragged  _ whoof _ of air as the prisoner’s heels caught him in the chest. The off-balance man collided with his fellow, and together they narrowly missed being run down by the motorcycle as they landed in an unceremonious heap on the wet concrete.

In an instant, the two riders were flinging themselves off the cycle to approach the assailants, who were themselves torn between defending their ill-gotten property and beating the snot out of the newcomers.  Luckily for them, their choice was made by the riders. “Hello, boys,” one purred, pale blue eyes flashing in the low light from underneath her helmet. When the first tough made to stand, she kicked him in the chin with the sharp toe of her boot, her smile turning into a smirk as he dropped like a ragdoll.  As he lay in a senseless, groaning ball, she watched with imperious satisfaction as the other rider made short work of zip-tying their hands and feet, leaving them to sit on their asses on the cold ground.

“Hostage transfer complete,” Kayo commed to Scott, and in two minutes, the big green behemoth was hovering in the sky above them.  Penny wrapped her arm around Parker’s shoulders and guided him aboard, and Kayo gave them a nod; she’d stay there until the authorities arrived.

Onboard TB2, Virgil gave the controls to Gordon and unstrapped to attend to Parker, who was sitting on the bunk in the triage area. Virgil _ tched _ at the bruises on Parker’s face, fingers hovering but not touching the shiner.  “Nothing broken?” he asked the older man, but Parker shook his head even as he let Penelope guide him to a prone position on the bunk.

“Thanks for the rescue, Master Virgil,” he croaked, but Penny shushed him as she pulled a blanket over him.

Virgil smiled, resting a hand on Parker’s shoulder. “Anytime, my friend. Anytime.”

 

\--End--

  
  
  



	14. Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t write this for Whumptober, but I realized that this works perfectly for the ‘Drowning’ prompt (hasn’t been published anywhere else).
> 
> This was inspired by a photo of a beautiful glassy green wave taken by ohsurfyo on Tumblr, and takes place in the aftermath of Gordon’s hydrofoil crash.

**Whumptober: Drowning**

_ The sea calls to Gordon...and wants him for its own. _

 

He was somewhere, sitting on his bright yellow board, legs feeling the water as he lazily swished them back and forth. Just the feeling alone was enough to make him groan; it was cold but it felt  _ so good _ , like limbs coming awake after sitting too long. There was something about that, something important, but there was sun above and water below, and his body was alive with the knowledge of wind and wet and salt. A laugh bubbled up from deep in his chest, and he gave voice to it, dropping his head back and closing his eyes against the brightness.   
  
It had been too long since he’d done this. The sea called him every moment, pulling him with insistent fingers of scent and fog and diamond-glimmer. He belonged to it. It belonged to him. He was made of the stuff, surely that was the reason that he could hear its song day and night. Sometimes he dreamt of having an honest-to-goodness tail and fins and gills, the whole rig, and woke up grinning like a fool. He’d never told anyone of that dream, not even his brothers. They wouldn’t understand, he reasoned. So he let them call him Squid and Fish Boy and Guppy, never telling them how close they came to what he ached to be.   
  
The sea was rising beneath him, and a spark of excitement flashed down his spine. It was starting, and with an electric tingle that he could feel all through him, he began to move. Paddling, turning, he guided the board as he wished, and in a flash he was out of the water and up on the board, feet planted on its surface as solidly as if he were standing on concrete. The water rose higher and higher, bearing him into the sky on a curve of emerald glass that roared and tumbled and rolled. With a deft flick of his body, he was inside the curl, emerald light playing across his vision as he plowed a snowy furrow along the smooth surface of the water. He and the board were one, he and the wave were one, and he dragged his fingertips along the perfect curve as if he were teasing the skin of a lover.   
  
He felt the board wobble and falter beneath him, but the sensation was one of playful capitulation.  _ You got me, _ he thought, like a child tagged by a playmate. Water enveloped him, sending the board careening away until it was just him and the wave tumbling over each other.    
  
Without warning, pain shot through him, his body stretching as if the wave had seized him in sharp claws, intending to pull him apart. He couldn’t scream; screaming meant air, and there was none. His spine contorted; his joints dislocated, his muscles tore. Something slammed his head a terrible, terrible blow, and the scream that had been pushing against his teeth slipped out in an elegant stream of bubbles.   
  
With the water came darkness. There was no pain now, no fear, no thought, no anything. He sank like a stone to the bottom, there to gather barnacles and anemones.    
  
OoOoOoOoO   
  
Virgil shot to his feet, wide-eyed as alarms blared and running feet pounded the lino in the hallway. “Wh–what’s happening?”  He hovered over Gordon’s inert form, horror dawning as the familiar features turned first grey, then blue.   
  
“He’s crashing–going into cardiac arrest,” barked the doctor, as the crash team came racing in with the cart.  She laid her palms against Virgil’s shoulders and firmly pushed him out of the way. “I’m going to have to ask you to wait outside.”   
  
“No!” He lunged, straining for Gordon’s slack hand. “Please, just let me–”   
  
“Clear,” someone shouted, and Gordon’s body jumped. A sob tore loose from Virgil’s throat.    
  
_ “Gordy,”  _ he keened. “Please,  _ no–” _   
  
The doctor had left him to stare down the monitors, her mouth set. “Come on, kid,” she muttered at the flat pulse line. “Come on,  _ fight.” _   
  
OoOoOoOoO   
  
A sound echoed under the water, almost like a ping of sonar. PONG-pong…PONG-pong…   
  
Wait, that wasn’t right. The sound was different, two beats to it, almost singsong. The longer it went on, it sounded almost…familiar. It had a rhythm, a cadence.    
  
It was a word. No, a  _ name. _   
  
_ Gor-don…Gor-don… _   
  
_ His  _ name.   
  
Who knew he was down here, though? Who would think to look for him, encrusted with the sea and laying like a stone half-buried in the sand?   
  
The world lit with blinding light. A hand seized him and pulled hard. Up and up he went, toward the shimmering surface, a blocky figure standing between him and the light. The sea fell away from him as he went, leaving him naked and scarred and forever  _ changed _ .   
  
Virgil. The shape was Virgil, one hand clamped around his wrist, pulling with all his might to reclaim his little brother from the sea. Hope bubbled out of Gordon, taking all the water out of his lungs with it.   
  
“I’ve got you,” Virgil rumbled, wrapping him in strong, sure arms. “I’ve got you.”   
  
OoOoOoOoO   
  
“Pulse is rising,” called a nurse, a note of hope edging into her voice. “Blood pressure steadying.”   
  
Everyone around the bed dared to relax just a fraction as the reassuring  _ bleep-bleep-bleep _ of Gordon’s heartrate sounded once more. The doctor lowered the paddles and stowed them back on the cart as the rest of the team stepped back and shook themselves like sleepers coming out of a dream.   
  
Virgil clung to Gordon’s hand, his entire frame shuddering. “I’ve got you,” he murmured against the slack fingers. “I’ve got you.”


	15. Drugged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Mention of gore/blood; mention of murder victim; incarceration
> 
> Written to a prompt, which is the first two sentences. This wasn't written particularly for Whumptober, but it hasn't been published anywhere else. Definitely fits the bill for this, though! And I'm sorry for the abrupt ending...

**Drugged**

_ Wrong place, wrong time... _

 

“Why did you do it?” The police officer looked at him, trying to catch his eye.

 “I…” His shoulders curled forward until he could wrap his cuffed hands over his head. “It was dark. And I was scared.”

He wasn’t supposed to be scared; he was a  _ rescuer  _ for crying out loud. _ He  _ was the one who made the bad things go away,  _ he  _ was the one who did the saving.

Except now, as the police officer shook her head and shut the door to the cruiser, Scott wondered: Who was going to save _him?_

 

**OoOoOoOoO**

Virgil was the one who came to see him first. Scott’s heart squeezed at the sight of his hulking middle brother, face solemn and amber eyes darkened to smoky quartz. Marveling at the easy grace with which Virgil settled himself on the stiff-backed chair, Scott drank in the sight of a familiar face and form. _ Home,  _ said the leather jacket, the worn jeans, the gelled hair. Tears pricked Scott’s eyes before Virgil even said a word, which made the younger man’s frown deepen.

“You okay?” Virgil began, his voice slightly tinny over the comm set into the glass.

Scott shrugged, rustling the stiff prison drab. “No, but I’m alive, so–” He trailed off with a futile gesture, remembering only as both hands came up together that he was handcuffed. He quickly thrust his hands back into his lap, but Virgil made a noise in the back of his throat and Scott knew he’d seen the flash of metal.

“What happened?”

Scott looked away, helpless to do anything but shrug again. “I dunno, Virg. I was with this girl, we were at a bar having a good time, the bar closed and I offered to walk her back to her hotel.” He sighed, wanting to rub the bridge of his nose but not wanting Virgil to see the cuffs again. “Things got…a little hot, and I ended up staying for a while.” He felt his cheeks flush. “I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, I’m waking up…and I’m covered in blood.” 

Virgil went pale, but true to his training, he pressed for the essential details. “Any of it yours?”

Scott shook his head, keeping his eyes on his brother. If he closed his eyes, he knew he’d see the scene again: Plush hotel room, two glasses and an empty bottle of wine on the bedside table. Lovely girl, lithe body splayed spreadeagle, throat savaged, blue eyes frozen wide staring at the ceiling, blood pooling on the sheets. He rubbed his arm, once again feeling the blood drying on his skin, stiffening in his hair.

“You think you were drugged?”

“I must have been,” Scott conceded. “I don’t remember hearing or seeing or doing a damned thing.” He felt the tears prickling at his eyes again. “She was really nice. We’d had a good time. I was planning on seeing her again.”

A guard stepped up and tapped Scott on the shoulder. “Two minutes, Tracy. Wrap it up.”

Scott and Virgil just sat and looked at each other for a few heartbeats. “What do you want me to do?” Virgil asked.

“Call Dad’s lawyers.”

“Already done.”

Well, that was something, anyway. “Don’t tell Alan.”

Virgil pursed his lips. “That’s gonna be tough. The papers are already starting to sniff around.”

“Shit. Okay, just–tell them–” Scott glanced over his shoulder to see the guard walking toward him. “I dunno. Think of something, I’m sorry, you’re good at this.” He brought his hands up to the glass. “Love you, bro.”

Virgil’s throat worked, and he touched Scott’s hands on the other side of the glass. “Love you, too. I’ll see you soon.”

Scott stood before the guard could haul him out of his seat and went quietly, forcing himself not to look back at the forlorn man standing and watching him go.


	16. Hypothermia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I tried several different approaches to this chapter, but it took a random writing prompt to get it done!

_**AN: From a prompt: “A character is very cold. Are they always cold, or did something happen to make them cold?”** _

**Whumptober: Hypothermia**

_Space is cold, but it’s no match for the warmth between brothers._

 

“I’m cold, Johnny.”

John floats over to Alan, watching him carefully as the emergency lights bleed red onto his little brother’s face. He smiles down into the perfect blue gaze, wishing he could smooth back the platinum hair, but they’re locked into their helmets.

If the distress message didn’t get to the island, if Ridley isn’t sending help–

“I know, Allie. It won’t be long.” _Either way._

Alan sniffles; his nose has started to run, and he twitches it since he can’t wipe it. “You think so?”

John nods sagely. “I know so. When have they ever let us down before, huh?”

Alan manages a tiny smile. “Yeah.”

John looks up at the dark commsphere. His station is out of commission, thanks to a meteor that got tipped _just that much_ off its course. The gravity ring is still, its marquee no longer a beacon in the vast blackness.

A voice cuts through the silence, and hope shoots up John’s spine, chasing away the cold for a brief instant. “This is Global One. John, can you hear me?”

He taps his comm; thank heavens he’d found the small auxiliary battery tucked away in a storage closet. “Thunderbird Five to Global One,” he says, keeping his teeth from chattering with effort. “I copy you, Ridley.”

“Oh thank God.” She’s silent a moment, and when she comes back on the line, her voice is almost steady. “The GDF are on their way; they just launched and will rendezvous with you in ten minutes.” She stops, and he can almost see her chewing her lip, her fine dark brows drawn together in her heart-shaped face. “Please tell me you _have_ ten minutes.”

“We will.” John shares a glance with Alan, who gives him a firm nod, eyes bright, jaw set.

“That’s not exactly reassuring,” she retorts, “but I’ll take it. Are either of you hurt?”

“We’re fine, Ree,” Alan informs her, and it strikes John how young his brother sounds. The voice is deceptive, as are his looks; the young man at his side is a seasoned spacefarer, a veteran sailor of the stars. This virgin lover of a two hundred and eighty-seven foot tall mistress knows all too well the odds they’re facing, and John is amazed all over again that he’s lucky enough to have him as a little brother.

“I’ll hold you to that, Alan,” Ridley quips, though John can hear the steel underneath.

The minutes tick by. Now John can see Alan shivering, and he wraps his long arms around the wiry frame. It might not do much good–two humans against the absolute zero of the cosmos is like a kitchen match on the top of Everest–but at least they’re together. Alan smiles up at him, and there they hover, helmets touching.

In a few minutes, John can’t feel his arms around his brother. He can’t lift his head to consult the O2 meter, but he doesn’t need to. “Ree,” he huffs on a labored exhale. “’S…shuttle?”

“Yes, John. They’re just breaking orbit. Stay with me just a bit longer, okay?”

Alan stirs feebly, his head laying on John’s shoulder. “’Three,” he mutters. “Dis…dis’n..”

“Disengage, yes, they know.” John can hear her smile. “They won’t hurt her, Alan.”

The kid quirks a rueful smile. “’S…left…of ‘er.”

John tries to hug him closer. “’S okay, Al. You n’ Brains’ll…fix ‘er.” He keeps his eyes open, knowing that if he closes them, he’ll see the meteor slam into ‘Three once again, breaking her in pieces and scattering her into an ever-widening debris field.

“John.” Ridley is in his ear, and from how close she sounds, she’s on his private channel. “EOS?”

Pain lances through the only part of John that isn’t numb–his heart. “Got ‘er.” He reaches out to touch the disk of her mobile unit, frowning at the single LED lit on its face. He _just_ has her, and if it weren’t for her quick action, she would indeed be lost. Like a hurried traveler stuffing too many clothes into a tiny suitcase, she’d squeezed as much of herself as she could on the module before ‘Five went dark. He taps the case, hoping she can sense the vibrations. _John here. Rescue coming._

To his surprise, the light flickers. _Hurry._

“The shuttle is on approach to Thunderbird Five. Can you see it, John?” Ridley’s voice is beginning to settle into its usual steadiness. “They’re going to uncouple Thunderbird Three and engage emergency docking procedures. Alan, I told them to be as gentle as they could with your ‘Bird.”

Alan grunts in the affirmative, his helmet tucked against John’s neck seal.

Time skips for a moment, because now there are two astronauts in GDF ‘goldfish bowl’ helmets and hardsuits floating beside John. One of them looks vaguely familiar, and John blinks at him. “Sam.”

The name on the suit, QUINN, S, confirms that it is indeed Ridley’s 2IC. “Hiya, John.” Sam smiles gently at him. “Time to go.” Sam pulls John’s arm across his shoulders, hooks an arm around the younger man’s waist, and steers him toward the exit. John snatches EOS up and clasps her to his chest while Sam’s partner takes charge of Alan.

They make their way to airlock, and John presses the dead controls once more, just for old time’s sake. He looks back at his station, but he’s too cold to cry.

“I’ll be back,” he promises, and steps into the warm shuttle.


	17. Self-Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another one that refused to be pinned down until just the right prompt came along...

_**AN: From a prompt: “Something gets broken accidentally-on-purpose.”** _

 

**Whumptober: Self-sacrifice**

_When the blame rests on our shoulders, the burden can be too heavy to bear._

 

He would never forget it. Not as long as he lived, would he ever forget that sound--the sound of a man screaming as he plummeted toward certain death.

Once again, Brains’ stomach convulsed, and he retched into the laboratory slop sink, holding on to the steel sides for dear life. Virgil’s scream rang in his ears, bringing another wave of nausea, but there was nothing left and he rode an excruciating spasm of dry heaves that made stars blossom in his field of vision. When they were over, he turned on the tap, then slid to sit with his head leaning back against the sink, the sound of water against metal covering his desperate gasps.

They’d tested the gecko gloves fully. At the ranch, on the island, under water, in the snow, on icy surfaces, on hot surfaces--they’d always worked before.

_Virgil slapped his hand against the concrete, slid, eyes wide, legs scrambling, hands scrabbling for purchase--and screamed--_

Brains tipped forward, but there were only more dry heaves. A bead of saliva spooled down to the floor between his knees, and he hung his head.

His conscience kicked him. _You’re wasting water._

With a herculean effort, he got to his feet and shut off the faucet, watching the water swirl away down the drain toward the recycling plant on the far side of the island. A plant that he’d designed, the only one of its kind, tailor made for the needs of this island, this enterprise, this family.

 _His_ family.

He had failed them.

It was more than Brains deserved, but Virgil would live. After he’d been transported back to the island, Scott and Brains had worked as a team to set his broken arm, and they’d wrapped his swollen, sprained ankles, but it could have been so, so bad. The thought of Virgil resting comfortably several floors above pushed down the nausea crawling at the back of Brains’ throat, but it didn’t remove it entirely. They’d take a trip to the mainland tomorrow, just to ensure that they’d set the arm correctly. Gordon was camped out beside their heavy lifter, waking Virgil up every so often to keep tabs on the concussion.

A concussion Virgil suffered because of him. Because of his failure.

Another wave swept through Brains at that, but this time, it wasn’t nausea. He clenched his fists and whirled to face his lab, the very place that had birthed the failed gloves, tawny topaz eyes darkening to smoky quartz. He reached for the glittering spanner, reveling in its heavy cold promise of destructive power.

“Brains!”

Someone was yelling at him, but he didn’t care. All around him, glass shattered, metal squealed, electronics fizzled, and the furious beast inside of him howled for more.

_“Hiram!!”_

His glasses were God knew where, probably casualties of his rampage, if poetic justice had been served. He blinked at the blurry features before him, feeling his breath coming in accelerated gasps and the itch of sweat on his forehead. His hand ached; looking down, he saw the knuckles pale against his mahogany skin. He had to concentrate a moment in order to convince the fingers to let go, and the metal clanged to the floor.

“Kayo, I--”

“What are you doing?” She turned to survey the devastated room; when she turned back to him, her eyes were full of horror. “Is this--is this because of what happened to Virgil?”

“I--yes. The gloves failed.” _Screaming--_ “I just...I’m sorry.”

Kayo let out a breath and wiped her eyes. “Brains--Hiram--he wasn’t wearing the gloves.”

It took a few tries, but he got the word out. “What?”

“No. He’d been about to put them on, but the building shifted, and he just went for a conventional protocol.” She shrugged. “It...didn’t work out like we planned.”

Brains heard himself make a sound somewhere between pain and despair, but Kayo stepped closer, laying her hands on his shoulders. “This was not your fault. Even if he had been wearing them, things happen.” She looked around at the devastation, then back at him. “You need to talk to someone. You’re trying to be Superman when you’re not. None of us are.”

She wouldn’t leave unless he promised her that he would call a counselor in the morning. International Rescue kept a list of carefully vetted therapists just for such an emergency, when the demands of their lives went beyond what late-night talks over cups of coffee could help.

No one, however, would be able to clean up the mess he’d made in the lab. This was his domain, and he’d made sure everyone knew it. Now it was his to put to rights, and he picked up the spanner he’d let drop only minutes before.

Time to get back to work.


	18. Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't written expressly for Whumptober (not published elsewhere), but it definitely fits the bill!

**_AN: This came from a tumblr post where folks were discussing: “What’s the weirdest thing you’ve done while your brain was on autopilot?”_ **

 

**Whumptober: Exhaustion**

_ Alan makes a painful discovery: When you’re worn out, logic is the first thing to go. _

 

He’d never been so glad to turn the landing sequence over to the autopilot. Truth to tell, he wasn’t entirely certain he would have been able to thread his ‘Bird back down through the Roundhouse, so he was more than happy to let her go. Like a migratory creature heading to her roost, she knew the way and settled onto her berth with a satisfying deep clunk and a hiss from her retros. A half dozen jaw-cracking yawns got him through the post-flight checks, and then he was keying the sequence for the massive robot arm to pluck him from the cockpit.

“Seeya, girl,” he murmured, kissing his gloved fingertips and pressing them to the fuselage. Then he settled back into his chair, dozing as the lift mechanism engaged and dragged him back into the villa.  The small bump at the end of the trip awoke him to the sight of a deserted lounge, so he climbed out of his seat, barely noticing that he was still in his uniform.

Alan stumbled into the kitchen, dragging the soles of his boots on the teak boards.  _ Food. Shower. Bed. _ The words repeated like a litany in his exhausted brain.

He opened the fridge, his hands going for the thick foil packet on the shelf before him. He grabbed it and nearly dropped it, but he held on to it long enough to read the words someone had scribbled on it in Sharpie:  _ PIZZA _

_ Ahhh. _ He took a long sniff, letting the beautiful, beautiful odors of ham and pepperoni and onion and green peppers fill his nose. His mouth watered. His stomach growled. Jackpot. 

He was tempted to just tear open the packet and devour the slices cold, but knew that if Grandma caught him, he’d have to put it on a plate and warm it up and actually eat at the table. To that end, he shut the refrigerator door, put the pizza down just long enough to grab a plate, and then placed said pizza on said plate and shoved it into the microwave.

The smell intensified. He could almost hear the sizzle of the meat. The cheese would be so gooey–Ah. With a small beep, the microwave signaled him that all was ready.

With his eyelids at half-mast, Alan poured himself a glass of juice, took the pizza out of the microwave, and slid it neatly into the trash bin beside the sink. When he was done, he took the plate and glass to the table, settled himself into a chair, and addressed the still-warm plate.

It was empty. Only a smear of grease and a blob of cheese remained.

Alan studied it for a moment, then pushed it away, folded his arms onto the table, and dissolved into tears.

* * *

 

He woke to the smell of pizza.  _ No _ , he thought,  _ I must be dreaming. _

“Allie,” said a voice in his ear. “Hey, Al. You hungry?” Scott dropped into the chair beside him, and a wall of basil-scented air rolled over Alan.

The astronaut raised his head and blinked at his eldest brother, who was also still in his uniform. “Scotty?”

“Hey, sleepyhead.” Scott opened the box on the table before him and plopped a slice of margherita pizza onto the naked plate between them. “Earthquake in Italy,” he explained. “After we got done, turned out that the pizza oven was still intact, so the locals made us a few pies. I asked if I could take one home to my little brother.” He grinned and shoved the plate toward Alan. “Buon appetito.”

For a moment, Alan just looked at the pizza. Then, almost before he knew what he was doing, he was hugging Scott, the last of his tears rolling down the side of his nose.

“Whoa! Hey, what’s up?” Scott slowly wrapped his arms around Alan, frowning as he felt the blond’s silent hiccoughs. “It’s okay. You just need some food in you.” He lifted the quivering chin and smiled tiredly into the freckled face. “Let’s eat, then we’ll call it a day, all right?”

Alan sniffled and wiped his eyes. “Okay.”

It was the most delicious pizza he’d ever tasted.


	19. Serious Illness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's look into the future a little...because time marches on, even for the members of International Rescue.

**_AN: Inspired by a photo of a beautiful bright red Ferrari._ **

  
  


**Whumptober: Serious Illness**

_ Sometimes, the smallest things mean the most. _

  
  
Each of the Tracy brothers had their own ideas about what made the perfect ride, whether it was in space, in the air, in the sea--or on the ground.   
  
Scott had always had a passion for Audi that no one else in the family understood. John didn't drive often, but always seemed to have a new ride when he did--usually some experimental thing, electric and eerily soundless while being wickedly fast. Virgil and Gordy were of course devoted to the bone-shaking rumble of their respective Lamborghinis, but when it came time for Alan to choose his own ride, he’d seen the Ferrari and it had been love at first sight. It earned him a good deal of brotherly ribbing, but truly, the Ferrari suited him just as ‘Three did. In his signature color, it was like an extension of his spaceborne lady, and even Virgil had to admit that the union of this particular man and machine was nearly seamless.   
  
Since their ill-fated driving lesson in FAB-0 years before, Parker and Alan had always had a special bond over all things motorized and four-wheeled. There was the year they’d attended a Barrett-Jackson car auction, managing to come away without an expensive bit of machinery in tow, though once or twice they’d been sorely tempted. 24 hours of LeMans was cause for much discussion, as well as the Daytona 500, the various merits of Formula One over NASCAR, and of course hours of the old Top Gear shows were of great interest to the former safecracker and the young rocketeer.   
  
Parker had been the first one to admit when he’d needed to hand over the keys to FAB-1. By that time, Penny herself was semi-retired, having Sylvie and Derek to deal with, so rather than force her and Gordon to gently suggest a change of status, he’d given them up on his terms, which had been how he’d wanted it to go. It was just as well, too, since that was the year of his cancer diagnosis, and the chemo had made him unable to lift his head some days, much less sit behind the wheel of the Rolls. Shaky hands and rocket launchers were a poor mix, he said, and though Gordon looked at the keys in his palm as if Parker had handed him his still-beating heart, the former aquanaut had taken them and dropped them in the top drawer of Penny’s desk. “For safekeeping,” Gordon had said, and so they had remained.   
  
Penny had called Alan earlier in the week, the noise of his niece and nephew in the background, and smiled gamely at him. “Alan, dear, would you be able to me a small favor?”   
  
“If it’s marry your cousin, I already did that,” he quipped. “Seriously, what’s up?”   
  
Her face, still pretty in middle-age, darkened slightly. “Parker…well, he needs some cheering up, and I thought you’d be just the person.”   
  
Alan frowned too; seeing the man lose not only the steel in his hair but his spine as well had been a blow for all who knew him to have clever hands a deadly aim. “Sure thing, Pen. What do you need?”   
  
Her smile returned, and this time it held a familiar spark of mischief. “I need you to drive him to his doctor’s appointment.”   
  
When Alan arrived at the door to Creighton-Ward Manor, he kept his smile despite the stab of pain he felt at seeing his brother helping Parker across the gravel. “Someone need a ride?” he joked, and was heartened to see a genuine smile on the gaunt features.   
  
“Thank y’kindly, Master Alan,” Parker drawled. “Ah, she’s a beaut. Always did like the Ferraris.”   
  
“Well hop in and I’ll introduce you two,” Alan replied, opening the door so Gordon could assist in getting Parker settled. When Gordon had belted the five-point-harness around Parker’s thin frame, he closed the door and turned to his baby brother.   
  
“Go easy on him, Al,” he said, sotto voce. “Pen’s worried about him. I’m not sure how he’s still upright and functioning, but I guess he’s just a stubborn bastard.”   
  
“He wouldn’t be Parker if he wasn’t,” Alan contributed. “We’ll be okay. Just to the doctor’s and back, nothing too strenuous.”   
  
Gordon’s raised eyebrow spoke volumes about how much he believed that, but he didn’t say anything except, “Okay, we’ll see you at teatime, I guess.”   
  
Alan snorted; his brother may have been born in Kansas and raised on a tropical island, but now he was almost a Brit, even down to a hint of Pen’s accent. “Cheerio,” Alan snarked, giving Gordon a mock salute before slipping into the driver’s seat.   
  
“Master Alan,” Parker ventured, “shall we take the scenic route?”   
  
Alan’s face didn’t give anything away to his brother, who was still standing on the steps watching them like an imperious hawk. “Scenic route it is,” he replied, and dropped the car into gear.   
  
They sprayed Gordon’s shoes with gravel on their way out of the drive, Parker whooping with delight all the way.


	20. Restraints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...Ouch.

**_AN: This is a wild ride, so hang on!_ **

 

**NOTE: The San Pedro cactus is legal to grow ornamentally in much of the world, and only yields a hallucinogenic substance (mescaline) when specially prepared. Don’t do drugs, kids!**

 

**WARNING: Accidental ingestion of drugs. ‘Bad trip,’ hallucinations.**

 

**Whumptober: Restraints**

_ Danger is all around--sometimes from where you least expect it. _

 

The prisoner strained against his bonds, thrashing and bucking in an attempt to escape. His body arched, hands fisting, and he screamed into the darkness.  His protests had contained words, once, but had denigrated hours ago into furious, inhuman howls. Tears streamed from his eyes, more from frustration and pain rather than sorrow.

He found his words again, and wasted no time in using them. “Damn you, let me go!” he snarled, pulling at the sturdy leather straps that had already rubbed his skin raw.

“I’m sorry,” said a voice. “I can’t do that.”

“My brothers know where I am,” he retorted, hoping against hope that it wasn’t mere words, that they hadn’t left him to rot in this prison. “They’ll find me soon. When they do, you’re gonna wish you’d never laid your hands on me!” Another scream tore loose from his throat as he kicked against the straps around his ankles. “You’ll pay for this!”

A hand reached toward him, and wide-eyed, he recoiled as far as his bonds would let him. “S-stay back!” he shouted. “Don’t touch me!” Every muscle tensed, and his eyes squeezed shut, a whimper rising from his throat. “Please--”

The hand, holding a wet cloth, gently wiped the sweat from his face, catching the tears as he began to weep.

“Mom,” he hiccoughed. “I want my Mom.”

The owner of the hand holding the cloth continued to bathe the sweating face, then dipped the cloth back into its basin of cool water and wrung it out again. “I know, Gordy,” said a soft baritone voice as the hands wiped sweat from the aquanaut’s bare arms and scarred chest. “I wish she was here too.”

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

“I think I’ve isolated it,” said Brains, eyes alight with triumph. “S-scott, take a look at this.”

Scott, still in his uniform, hurried over to the terminal where Brains worked. His own eyes, their sapphire depths turned ocean-dark with worry, scanned the holographic window, but his heavy dark brows drew together in confusion. “I’m sorry, Brains, you’ll have to tell me what I’m looking at.”

Brains stretched out a hand and pointed to a chemical notation on the screen; oddly enough, the small doodle looked like a bird in flight. “This is mescaline, a psychotropic compound that naturally occurs in the flesh of  _ Echinopsis pachanoi-- _ the San Pedro cactus,” he explained. “M-most of the time, the flesh must be specially p-prepared to extract the mescaline. It’s grown as an ornamental plant all over the world.”

Scott's frown deepened. “So this is the stuff that’s got Gordy all riled up?”

“Right,” Brains continued. “See these spines?” He zoomed in on a photo of a green, cigar-shaped plant nestled in a terracotta pot, revealing thick flesh studded with needle-sharp clusters. “Normally, if you p-pricked your finger, all you’d get would be a n-nasty little puncture wound. However, Gordon got several dozen p-puncture wounds when he fell into that cactus patch in Peru.”

Scott sighed, seeing once again how the strong wind coming down off the Andes buffeted Thunderbird Two, tossing Gordon around like a yo-yo at the end of his harness as he reached for a frightened climber. Before Virgil could steady his craft, Gordon dropped several meters and slammed into a patch of cactus clinging to the rocks, yowling in pain as the spines pierced the neoprene of his wetsuit.

After they’d steadied Gordon and retrieved the climber, they’d joked with Gordon about being a human pincushion. Gordon had gone along with the joke for a while, until halfway through the trip home, he’d told Virgil to hurry up or he’d be late for swimming practice. They’d all laughed, but Gordon’s reaction had stopped them cold.

“C’mon, Dad,” he’d whined. “Floor it! Not my fault Grandpa’s old rustbucket wouldn’t start.”

Scott glanced back at Gordon, then flicked his commander’s comm to a readout of the vitals of his team via the tech wired into their suits. “Virg, take a look at Gordy’s heart rate,” he muttered, sending the info to TB2’s heads-up display with a flick of his fingers.

Virgil studied the abnormally high numbers for a moment, then switched his ‘Bird to autopilot before unstrapping to turn and face Gordon. “Hey fishie, you feeling okay?” he asked, keeping his tone light.

Gordon nodded. “Can we have mac and cheese after practice?”

“What’s up with him?” asked Alan, alarm creeping in at the edges of his voice. “Gordy--?”

“So hot in here,” Gordon complained. “Dad, roll down a window, would ya?”

Alan laid his hand on Gordon’s arm. “Dad isn’t--” he began, but before he could even blink, Gordon reached out and slammed Alan’s hand against the bulkhead. With a cry of shock, Alan tried to yank his hand away--and found he couldn’t. Time seemed to stand still as the rocketeer stared at the bright yellow haft of Gordon’s dive knife sticking out of the back of his hand, then turned wide cornflower eyes on his older brother.

“You fucking touch me again, I’ll put this through your fucking throat,” the aquanaut snarled.

“Gordy,” Alan whispered, as droplets of red began to slide down the wall.

Instantly, Virgil was up and out of his seat. He slapped his palm on the emergency disengage for Gordon’s harness, then pulled the blond up by the front of his uniform. Without a word, Scott threw off his harness and ran for a medikit while Virgil hauled Gordon, who was kicking and snarling and trying to bite, over to the makeshift hospital bunk. “I dunno what that was about,” Virgil growled, “but something’s going on with you, so you’re gonna sit tight _ \--by yourself-- _ until we can figure out what it is.”

Gordon was all fists and feet, his skin flushing dangerously red as he continued to wrestle with his bulkier older brother. Then as abruptly as it had come, Gordon went limp in Virgil’s arms, eyes wide and pupils blown. “They’re saying I cheated,” he whispered, clinging like a frightened child. “Now they’re coming to take it away.”

Virgil used this opportunity of relative calm to ease Gordon onto the bunk and quickly, but gently, buckle restraints around his wrists and ankles. “Who’s coming, and what are they taking away?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

“The Olympic Committee,” Gordon whimpered. “They’re gonna take my gold medal.” Tears rolled down the tanned face. “Dad’s gonna be so mad at me.”

Virgil smoothed the sweaty dishwater waves back from Gordon’s forehead. “It’s okay,” he soothed. “Just rest. We’ll be home soon.”

 

Before they’d arrived back at the island, Gordon had run the gamut from heartbreaking sobs to screaming and cursing at unseen foes. Scott had managed to extricate Alan’s hand from the wall, and now the teen was cradling his hastily bandaged hand to his chestplate, helmet on to block out Gordon’s tirade, his eyes clamped shut against the pain of both hand and heart.

Now Scott turned back to watch Virgil as he sat beside Gordon, who was tossing a litany of obscenities at a phantom version of Fuse. Virgil, his face composed, continued to dunk the cloth, wring it out, and wipe his brother down with it. The sheets beneath Gordon’s legs, buttocks and back were tinged with pink from the trickling punctures; they’d decided not to attempt to treat his wounds until they could safely lay him on his stomach.

“Can we sedate him until this stuff wears off?” Scott asked Brains.

“From all the information I’ve been able to search, sedation might be risky. Everything points to having him r-ride out the effects.” He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “As unpleasant as that is for everyone, including Gordon.”

Scott glanced up at the readouts for Gordon’s vitals, hope dawning in him as Gordon’s heart rate began to slow from a wild gallop to a quick trot. “Looks like he might be trying to come out of it,” he ventured. “Like you said, I guess we’ll just have to wait till its run its course.” He heaved another sigh. “Gonna be a long night.”

 

As the sun came up over Tracy Island, Virgil dozed in his chair, the cloth he’d used to cool Gordon’s skin still clutched in his hand. A noise from the bed woke him, and he shot to his feet to stand over the aquanaut.  “Gordon?”

“Wh...what happened?” the blond croaked. “‘M cold, Virg.”

Virgil dropped the cloth on a table and retrieved a thick blanket from the infirmary’s supply cabinet, spreading it over Gordon’s naked form. “You had a bad reaction to being stung by a cactus--actually make that several dozen cactuses.”

“Cacti.”

“Cacti. Cactis?” Virgil shrugged, smiling. “We were worried about you, kiddo.”

Gordon yawned. “‘M tired.”

“I’m not surprised. Your heart ran a marathon, but it forgot to tell your body.”

“Oh.” Horror dawned in the depths of the bleary amber eyes. “Did...did I stab Alan?”

Virgil nodded. “Yeah. He’s doing okay though. You were pretty high; I was sort of hoping you wouldn’t remember.”

Gordon’s eyes fluttered shut. “I thought he was the Hood, Virg.”

“Oh.” There wasn’t really anything to say to that, so Virgil tucked the blanket more tightly around Gordon’s shivering body. “Get some rest, okay? I think you’re over the worst of it now.”

“Hope so,” Gordon mumbled, asleep by the time the words left his lips.

A soft footstep made Virgil turn around; Alan, his right arm riding in a sling, filled the doorway. His freckles stood out against his pale skin as he watched his usual partner in crime sleep off the last effects of the accidental trip. “Is he gonna be okay?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah.” Virgil nodded to the sling. “How’s the hand?”

Once they’d gotten home and stabilized Gordon in the infirmary, Scott had whisked Alan away to Auckland in TB1. “It’s still pretty numb,” Alan admitted, shifting uncomfortably. “The surgeon said I needed to come back in two weeks and see how it was doing, then we’d schedule some physio.” He took a few steps forward to join Virgil at Gordon’s bedside, and they stood looking down at him for a long moment. “You haven’t undone his restraints.”

“Not until I’m sure he’s not gonna hurt himself--or anyone else.” He glanced over at Alan. “You know he didn’t mean it,” Virgil said.

“Yeah, I heard him.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

Alan looked away. “I will be.” He stared down at Gordon for a few more heartbeats, then turned away and left the room.

Virgil watched him go, then sat back down to keep vigil as Gordon slept.

 

\--End--


	21. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caught between memory and reality, Jeff begins to slip away from his family.

**_AN: Inspired by a gorgeous photo of a cabin by a lake, surrounded by trees aflame with autumn beauty, as well as a scene from the film “Sleepless in Seattle.”_ **

 

**Whumptober: Stay**

_ Jeff’s grief at his wife’s death threatens to overwhelm him. _

  
  


As much as he loved their boys, this had been their special place.

After the work had begun, after the first contract and the next and then the next all snowballed into the millions that became the billions and his name on the side of the building and the rockets–that was when he’d taken her here, to this tiny out of the way place he’d heard about. 

They’d come here in all four seasons, giddy with their freedom, so desperate for each other that they practically dropped on the hardwood in front of the door, bags fallen where the were flung, half-undressed before they came up for air. Then when they were pleasantly drunk on the excellent wine he’d stocked and the fabulous dinner he’d ordered (for that first night, anyway) and each other, they would go outside and just soak in the scenery. In snow, in rain, in the heady verdant humidity, and especially now, when the hills were aflame, they would just  _ be, _ and take their time at it.

He hasn’t been here since the accident that took her from him. He’s really only come up here to see if there are any repairs that were needed before he closes it up to sell, but he finds himself walking the silent rooms, stirring dust from the canvas-covered furnishings, and feeling more like a ghost than himself.

Although, he hasn’t felt much like himself in years. There hasn’t been any point to doing so, now that she’s gone. He can be  _ Jeff Tracy, billionaire  _ with his whole self, now. He can let that man consume him, can put him on like a costume in the morning, and take it off only late at night, when no one’s around to see. His mother sees, though she never says anything. She doesn’t have to.

He wanders into the kitchen, finds a glass and rinses it, then pulls back the cover on the liquor cabinet and pours himself two fingers from a bottle he’d bought when John was born. He takes it out to the deck, there to lean on the railing and watch the ducks paddle by.

Two arms slip around his waist from behind. “Hitting the sauce already?” asks a voice, and Jeff smirks.

“It’s good sauce,” he counters, turning to see her standing there, hair flaming like the leaves all around them. “I hate drinking alone. Want me to-”

He breaks off as she neatly plucks the glass from his hand and takes a swallow of the amber liquid, the barest wince the only testament to how it must have burned going down. “How about some ice next time, cowboy?”

He takes the glass back from her and sets it on the railing. “It’s a deal.” He wraps his arms around her, nose buried in the messy chignon atop her head. “God, I miss you.”

“I know.”  She nestles closer. “The boys–”

“They’re fine.” 

“I know.” She pulls back to smooth his cheek with her hand. “I just wanted to hear you say it.”

“They need you, Lucy.” He tips forward to lean his forehead against hers. “ _I_ need you.”

She doesn’t answer. 

He blinks, and she is gone. In her place, the old emptiness comes surging back. He finishes his drink and goes back inside.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

He hadn’t planned on staying, but he grabs his bag from the car (nice thing about owning the hotel, no reservation to cancel) and sets about making himself at home. Quick trip down to the corner market to grab some essentials, a few minutes’ chat with the store’s owner (haven’t see you in these parts in a while, good to see you, how’s those boys, we sure do miss you folks around here, let us know if you need anything) and he’s in business. He manages not to burn the steak, and the cold beer bottle soothes fingertips singed from yanking the baked potato out of the oven.  The old leather chair is as comfortable as ever, and envelopes him like a hug from a long-lost friend as he sinks into it. A few moment’s fiddling with the TV remote and he has a game going; it doesn’t matter who’s playing. He checks his phone before digging in, smiling as he sees messages from his children and his mother. Kyrano and his secretary have left messages too, and he lets his food cool to eating temperature while he fires off a few answers.

A slender hand plucks the phone from his and lays it on the table. “Your food’s getting cold.”

“Force of habit.” He scoots over, and she slides into the seat next to him. It’s a few moment’s work, but finally they arrange themselves so he can hold on to his plate and see the TV as well as have his arm around her. They stay that way until his dinner is no more than a curl of bacon and an empty potato jacket on the plate, and the windows are dark.

His fingers go into her hair. “I love you.”

She snuggles against his sweater. “I love you, too.”

“I thought we had time, Luce.”

“I know.” She rises up and meets his eyes. “So did I.” She sighs. “I’m sorry.”

He cups her face in his hands. “We still have Alan because of what you did.”

She smiles and hands him his phone. On the screen is a message:

Alan:  _ G’night Dad, I love you _

He smiles and types a reply:  _ I love you too son _

He stands and takes his dishes into the kitchen, then shuts off the lights and goes upstairs.

Truth to tell, they hadn’t spent much time in the bedroom, preferring to sleep out on the sofa and watch the sunrise. He smiles at his reflection in the bathroom mirror; if he was ruthlessly truthful, they hadn’t slept much at  _ all, _ despite feeling rested when they left the lake. No, they had indeed slept, but not for the long stretches everyone probably thought they did. Most of their time in bed had been filled with the kind of sex that first fulfilled the needs of the body, then fulfilled the needs of the soul. He’d adored making her gasp and laugh and moan, and fire off a stream of words in his ear that their sons would never have believed her capable of uttering. He’d reveled in how she approached him like a woman in love–yes, a woman with five children, but one madly in love with the father of those children. She’d come after him with every ounce of desire that had gone unanswered all of those late nights he’d either come home and nearly fallen asleep at the dinner table, or the nights he’d just stayed at the office. He had to hand it to her–other women would have found a way to get those needs met, but not his Lucy. He had never, ever gotten over the feeling that he didn’t deserve her.

He slides under the sheets, gathering her lithe form to him so her spine is pressed up against his chest. He drops a kiss on her bare shoulder, smelling the lavender of her perfume as her hair slides against his skin. “You smell so good,” he rumbles.

Her hand covers his as it lays against her belly. “I remember when you bought me a bottle,” she murmurs. “It was from the BX.”

He grins, remembering that frantic Christmas Eve, hurrying over to the base exchange the minute his boots hit the tarmac. “That’s right. I think I must have smelled all the bottles in the display case. The salesgirl just about kicked me out.” He inhales deeply of the scent again. “There was only one left, and that was it.”

She twists in his embrace, reaching to pull his mouth down on hers. “Goodnight, my love.”

Despite the flare of warmth between them, and his desire to bear her back on the pillows and let her do as she will with him, it’s been a long day. Sleep tugs at him, and he lets it pull him under.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

In the morning, he makes a call to the realtor. “No,” he says, in answer to the realtor’s question. “I’ve decided to keep the house for a while longer.”

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

The good thing about having a business like his is that he can pretty much conduct it anywhere. He cleans off a spot near the windows and brings in a desk from the other room, sets it up with photos of his boys and Lucy, his mother and father, Kyrano and Kayo. His rule is that he keeps banker’s hours at the lake, and to his surprise, he starts eating better, too. He can leave anytime he wants to, since Tracy-Two is berthed at the local muni airport and from there it’s not too long to JFK and Tracy-One. All in all, a capital arrangement–of course, he misses his boys, but somehow, he wants to keep this place separate from his life as a family man. It’s selfish, he knows, but isn’t everyone entitled to a little selfishness now and then?

Days turn into a week, then two. He’s never felt better in his life. Maybe it’s the mountain air, he wonders, sipping coffee at the railing one morning, watching a hawk catch its breakfast from the waters of the lake.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Alan:  _ Dad I miss you _

Alan:  _ Are you coming home soon? _

He texts back:  _ Soon, son. Soon. _

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

She comes to him at night, slipping into the bed and curling herself around him. “Jeff,” she breathes. “Stay with me, Jeff.”

“Forever,” he assures her.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

One afternoon, someone knocks on the door. Warily, he gets up to see who’s daring to intrude on his sanctuary, his snug cozy world with the love of his life by his side. Her eyes gleam from across the room, perfect turquoise in the sun-dappled light off the water. 

Scott is on the other side of the door, his face wearing an expression of worry that is out of place on one so young.

“Dad,” he says, without preamble. “You need to come home.”

Jeff is shaking his head even before the words are finished rolling out of his son’s mouth. “No, Scott.”

_ “She’s not here, Dad.” _ Scott hasn’t moved. “She’s  _ dead _ . She died  _ years _ ago.”

He is full of rage, and part of his fury is at himself for being angry with the son she gave him, her firstborn. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he spits. “When you love someone, Scott, you’ll understand.”

“I  _ do  _ love someone,” Scott counters, his voice mostly staying together. “I love  _ you _ . Come. Home.”

Then Scott’s arms are around him, and Jeff’s anger dies, leaving him empty. “Okay, son,” he manages. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry, Dad,” says his eldest, in a voice that he’s heard him use with his little brothers. “She’s not in a place.” He taps his own chest. “She’s here.”

Jeff raises Scott’s chin. “And here.” He pulls him in for a hug, feeling like he hasn’t done this in a long, long time. Lucy always said he gave good hugs; he makes up his mind to start giving more of them.

The papers are signed. The house is gone, safely in the hands of a couple who plan to turn it into an intimate retreat for their guests. Snow is threatening when Jeff looks back at the house one last time.

At an upper window, the light reveals a flash of red, a pale oval of a face–and then it’s just the reflection of a Japanese maple in the yard opposite.

“Let’s go, Dad,” Scott calls.

And so he does.

  
  



End file.
